


The Concept

by Control_Room



Series: The Big Picture [1]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Assault, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Gore, Child Death, Child Loss, Child Murder, Drowning, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gore, Graphic Description of Corpses, Great Depression, Homelessness, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insanity, Insomnia, Lack of Sleep, M/M, Murder, Mutually Unrequited, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Self Loathing, Self depreciation, Starvation, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tags Contain Spoilers, heavy blood, imposter syndrome, non traditional drug use, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2019-10-13 20:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17494979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room/pseuds/Control_Room
Summary: Joey Drew did not seem right. No. The name was all wrong, the face was all wrong, the size, the color, the eyes, nothing was right about the man that stood before him.He did not know why.





	1. The First Thoughts

Joey opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling of his “home”.

An abandoned apartment building, half rotted and falling apart.

Despite the quality, it was much better than the Ramirez Estate.

So much better.

He was alone and it felt both terrible and wonderful. The terrible all encompassing loneliness contrasted by the wonderful, exalting, beautiful, freedom. Freedom after being trapped for so long.

Terribly poor quality of living, merely an illusion of it, but at the same time, pure, glorious freedom to be who he was, who he wanted.

Was that not the definition of life? To be free and living, to breathe without fear, to love without being hit?

Or were those basic human rights…?

He shivered, tightening his tattered shirt around himself. He was hungry. Food sounded disgusting. He hated being so indecisive. He hated everything about himself. He was wide awake and exhausted, he was too feminine, he was too tall, he was too dark, he was too jittery, too hideous and malformed, too stupid, he was gay (that in and of itself was a curse), and this blasted headache and chill!

Joey groaned, tilting his head back.

Part of him said he never should have left home.

That part of him was wrong.

He got up, prying himself off musty floorboards, dusting himself off. He went to the unfinished bathroom, smiling at himself in the mirror.

 _Freak_.

He looked horrible, tired, gaunt, like a half starved mongrel. He scrubbed at his face in the cloudy mirror, trying to fix his lengthy hair, pushed back his short - but getting long - beard. His hair fell back over his eyes. The dark blue black seemed to swallow him up, kept people looking away from him. Kept him safe and alone. It reminded him of ink.

His father, his real father, not his step father, said it was wonderful.

His stepfather said it was abominable.

So he grew it long.

Little rebellions.

He was never going back, no matter how much he loved Night Vale.

The world outside of his little town was so confusing and convoluted, but he changed, he adapted.

Brooklyn, huh.

New York.

Swell place.

Great state.

Noisy as hell in the city.

He hated it, the sounds scared him.

Made him feel like there would never be anyone’s voice masking it, no one’s touch protecting him from it. No one’s caress gently pushing it out of sight and mind.

So he hid away from it all.

Slipping down the creaky stairs of the empty should have been home, he exited out into the cold air outside, shuddering with the blast. He rubbed his head, walking briskly to the city, entering the post office and pulling open his box, not expecting anything within, simply going for the sake of the normality of it.

A dark letter was inside, unmarked.

He stared at it, taking it out with trembling fingers.

He glanced around, and upon seeing no one, he ripped it open.

Johan, come home for dinner at least.  
Mommy misses you.

 _Liar_.

She hated him, otherwise she never would have removed him from the will.

She never would have conspired against his father.

And she would have never, ever, married the man she did.

He threw away the letter on his way out, going off to work.

It was freezing in the open air. Johan had nothing to shield himself, and so he gripped his pride pin.

And he walked to work.

The cold nipped at him and the wind snapped at his nose, and he tucked his chin in against the icy January air.

He briskly got to work as fast as he could, trying to get out of the freeze.

He slammed shut the door of the newspaper building, clocking in and heading down to the lower levels of the place, sighing with relief as warm air heated his neck and hands, spreading to the whole of his body. He flicked on the lights, the fluorescent painful at first, but he quickly adapted. He always adapted. He had no other choice but to change and flow with the world.

The ones and zeroes always were in the corner of his vision, but he always ignored them, not knowing what they meant, and they had not caused him any harm yet.

The warmth of the building made his eyelids droop as he worked, stocking the papers and editorials and dating each item properly. He could hardly read them at this poin….

“RAMIREZ!”

Joey snapped awake.

Shit shit shit shit!

He was at work!

His head ached and then pounded more with the smack it received.

“There are white people who can do your job, you know!” his boss roared. “Snap to it!”

“Yes sir,” he gulped, rushing to the papers, resetting the machine he hated so much. Goddamned printing press. The amount of ink used for the thing was ridiculous. Another hit made him work faster. Insults were thrown at him. He kept his cool in check. He made sure each edition of book or editorial came out correctly, adding new paper, making adjustments and the such. His head hurt today, and the rumbling of the machine kept making it worse and worse. He put all his focus onto the work, ignoring the pain in his stomach and head. A tap on the shoulder made him spin around with a flinch. One of the other workers looked at him with worry. “Can I help you?”

“It’s your lunch break, Joey.”

“What?”

“It is. Time. For you. To take. A. Break.”

“Oh,” the Chicano flushed, swallowing down the lump in his throat, the words ‘I need help.’ The statement ‘Can I have something to eat?’ ripped at his stomach. He said a quiet, “Okay.”

He grabbed a paper and a pencil, going out to a secluded corner. He drew. He drew the character that helped him through so many different situations and different problems.

A little demon smiled at him.

The little demon was everything he was not.

He was soft and round, fluid and bouncy, such a charming and charismatic character. Lovable.

He stared at it, folding the paper over and making a motion. Another paper was added. More and more. The motion became fluid, and soon he added a background.

An animation. So smooth and lovely.

“Ramirez! Back to work!”

He was about to get back to the monotonous machinery, but he looked back at the flipbook in his hand.

“Joey! Get your ass moving!”

It was something he could do that took his skill, not his lack of it.

“No.”

Everyone in the workshop looked up. Even the machines’ hum became quiet.

“What was that?” His manager’s voice was shook and angered. “No? How dare you?”

“No, I refuse,” Joey stood up, rising to his full height, towering over everyone. “I hate this job.”

A hand whistled through the air to smack him.

It never managed, and the boss stared in shock at Johan’s hand holding back his wrist from his face, gently, delicately, like a thorny rose.

He put no effort into it.

He tilted his head, clearing having a massive headache.

He yawned, still holding him back.

“I quit. This clearly is not something that I should be doing. I should be doing art, animation, nothing of this sort,” he rolled his head. “Please give me my final paycheck and I will be taking my leave of this facility.”

An hour. It took an hour.

“Good fuckin’ luck,” his boss bid him. He shrugged in a reply. “You’ll never get a job in this economy. We’ll be waitin’ for you to come crawling back.”

He snatched a pair of scissors before leaving.

He stood in front of the mirror.

Snip snip, bitch. His hair fluttered to the floor.

His head felt so much lighter.

His hair was still a mess, but so much neater.

He trimmed his beard as well, leaving it short.

Johan ran a hand over it, walking out of could have been bathroom. One grabbed his suitcase, flipping it open, rummaging through the few things he had.

Something black caught his eye.

He carefully pulled it out.

Oh.

He did not mean to take that.

One of Rico’s suit jackets, and it felt so weighty in his thin hands.

The black glared at him.

He stared at it for a long moment before un pinning his pride button, pulling the fancy, the too fancy for him, to regal, jacket on.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The jacket made him look bigger, more confident… better.

He swallowed roughly.

Ricardo Josef Drew.

He flinched.

He looked nothing like his step brother, but he knew - he knew - that Ricky would be a much better match for this suit.

It was too big on him by the chest, too short by the sleeves, but it was unnoticeable unless one would stare at it trying to see what was off.

He looked respectable.

He went off and saw to his bank account, buying a small studio for himself, and a mattress! An actual bed!

_Joey Drew Studios._

(No one knew him. No one knew Johan Ramirez. Joey Drew sounded white. Johan Ramirez was clearly a colored person.)

That was the first day the facade existed.

The day he woke up with a headache in an empty abandoned building, snapping out of the grip of overuse, and then he became Joey Drew.

Joey Drew felt like a layer of skin not sitting quite right with the rest.

That was what he called the place, despite the crawling feeling of wrongness.

_**Joey Drew Studios.** _

For many months, he was the only person working there, in the small little place, him and a light table, his piano and guitar, his highly dangerous second hand projector, a pencil and a dream.

People loved Bendy.

(He bought a goddamn refrigerator.)

Those who saw him, at least.

(A new pair of glasses, rose pink, helping him see colors despite his color deficiency.)

Ratings were high for the amount that did.

(Ignoring his scars was so much easier now that he had something to push for.)

He was minorly successful, making enough to live off of.

(Eating when he wanted and able to actually purchase food and not swipe it felt so good!)

It filled him with happiness.

(He was finally at an uneasy contentedness.)

Henry Stein came into his life, an animator after his own heart, who wanted to see the man behind the Bendy cartoon.

A knock on the studio door.

Joey swiped a hand over his head, yawning and going to receive the visitor.

“Hello?” he greeted, rubbing his eyes. He froze as he saw his guest.

Blonde hair streaked with strawberry pink.

Flashing, bright, icy, spellbinding blue eyes.

Short, with the most beautiful curves.

Radiating confidence and the knowledge that he was just as good or better than you.

Pale smirking lips and twinkling pink cheeks, and such a dazzling smile.

Johan snapped back to reality from the smile growing wider. He stuttered, flushed, holding open his door for the man to come in. “My name is Johan. May I have the pleasure of knowing the name of such a marvelous being as yourself?”

“I’m just Henry Stein,” the man, Henry, coolly replied, entering into the little studio. He rose an eyebrow at the bed and fridge, making Joey blush even more. “You live here?”

“Well, I ca-”

“I like it.”

“Excuse me?” Joey breathed, his eyes wide. “You… like the fact I live in my studio?”

“Of course,” Henry snorted, and Joey fell so hard for that little laugh, his breath hitching. He swallowed roughly, trying to keep in mind his age. He was so young. Henry had to be much older than him. “Shows your work ethic. You probably work on those toons every second you can, huh?”

“Yeah,” Joey confessed, rubbing his shoulder. “I’m not one to be afraid of commitment.”

“I like that in a man,” Henry hummed, flipping through one of Joey’s latest animations. Joey melted in his skin, for once in his life grateful for his dark color. Henry turned back to him with that alluring smirk. “Are you hiring? I’ve got two things going for me, medical school and my daughter, and a bit of extra cash would help.”

“I… I can’t pay that much,” Joey mumbled, looking off to the side.  _He has a daughter_.  ~~Oh, Aramis…~~. “And I’ll have to purchase a second light table, so that may take some time. “Though I would be honored to have you working with me.”

“We can talk legalities later, eh Johan? Now, tell me…” Henry pondered for a moment. “How does one month sound? I’ll come back then if that’s how long it will take.”

“No no,” Joey shook his head, not wanting him to leave. “It’ll take me about a week to prepare. Can you come back in… let’s say five days? So we can discuss pay and the such.”

“Sounds great.”

He and Henry not only became employer-employee, but fast friends, and then business partners, and the studio was successful just between the two of them. While Henry drew Joey composed, and while Joey drew, Henry manned the projector. They made Boris together in that time. It was such a great year, 1925.

Joey was already like a second father to Linda.

Diane kept drawing Henry away from work, Henry often leaving Linda with Joey or her grandmother to be with his girlfriend.

It was a good time, more or less.

Years went by.

(Joey fell in more and more love, painful, aching, love.)

Linda called Joey Papa.

(He cried.)

Henry and Diane got “closer”, but Joey could tell she never loved him.

(He wished he warned Henry.)

The company grew into something stable, just them, but firm in the television industry.

(Joey would always freshen up the studio with various wildflowers he found as spring wore on, hoping and fearing Henry would know their symbolism.)

They were moderately successful, both comfortable in their living, both enjoying the other’s company, sharing the warmth.

(They woke up tangled together one hot day in the summer after passing out while drawing, and they laughed about it, neither uncomfortable with the situation.)

Joey, despite the weather getting colder, never felt warmer.

(Henry looked gorgeous in the crisp autumn air, his cheeks and lips an ensnaring bright red and his eyes flashing and smiling.)

Then the stock market failure.

(Good thing he did not release stock of his own.)

So many people who needed jobs.

(His old boss had asked if he could spare any money. He gave him fifty dollars.)

Not he.

(Their animations became more popular as people turned to them to assuage their pain.)

There were those in need though, and so….

(He knew what it was like to be hungry.)

He wrote out an advertisement.

(He froze at the name, again.)

**_Artists of all kinds, projectionists, musicians, and animators alike, apply to  
_ **

##  **_Joey Drew Studios._ **


	2. Happy Ending

 

Their studio expanded, Henry insisting on making more room for more workers. They built up one floor, for Joey’s apartment, and down one floor for the actual studio.

 

It felt good to build something with someone special to him.

 

What makes one special?

 

The most rare form of the word special is in reference to a train car used on rare occasions.

But we don’t have time to unpack all that.

 

Many things can create a form of peculiar distinction, and that pulls on a form of something special. Items are special when they have something different about them. For example, a computer made in nineteen twenty seven is something special compared to one made in two thousand seven. A scar composed of words is something special when you see it next to one from, let us assume, one from a broken arm. A person with a talent is called a person with a specialty. Holding a loved one in a dire situation is a special and terrible feeling, even if the gentle caresses will be forgotten a moment later.

 

Special means something different and awesome, yet awesome has two meanings.

 

That makes one special, when something is valuable and unique to them.

 

Joey met a good deal of talented and special people in the week he opened for hiring.

 

Sammy Lawrence was someone special. Jack Fain was someone special as well.

 

Sammy and Jack were like a diagnoser and a surgeon, one knowing what must be done and the other knowing how to do it, and these roles easily swapped between them.

 

Sammy and Jack came in together, one with a banjo and the other with lyrics. They performed wonderfully as a pair, clearly close friends, despite their obvious differences in styles. Sammy was harsh, taciturn, and smooth, whereas Jack was a mellow, soft spoken, and wry fellow.

 

They made quite the musical pair, the duo seemingly capable of all sorts of admirable ‘note’worthy (Dear reader, allow me to have my humor in this dire and grotesque situation. These small prods are my only special comfort in the pain of chronicling his side of the tale.) melodies. Joey and Henry hired them immediately.

 

Susie, the wonderful voice actress was someone special.

 

Her voice was nigh angelic, though when Henry had mentioned it so, Joey flinched, almost expecting something abnormal to occur, relaxing when nothing happened. Joey then quietly agreed that her singing was a heavenly marvel. Susie showed her voicing talent, and both Henry and Joey gave her a standing ovation along with her hiring. Joey laughed when she joked of a character just for her, shrugging and replying with a maybe.

 

Susie sent him a special smile, her eyes flicking over him, making him blush with the question if she was blind to see the pin stuck on his suit. At the same time, the rainbow was not a popularized symbol at the moment, and so this small incident was dismissed.

 

Lacie Benton and Thomas Connor introduced themselves by their quarreling over who was the better technician.

 

Lacie had a cool head and a passive aggressive attitude toward Thomas, and he was a foul mouthed temperamental man. Henry broke them apart by clearing his throat and cocking his eyebrow, he face asking if they were three year olds fighting over a toy. Faces, of course, cannot ask questions, but Henry was such a cartoonish being that it positively radiated from him. Had Joey been any more picturelike than he was, his eyes would be hearts at the confident and fluid manner Henry took control of the scene.

 

Henry asked Thomas who he was.

 

Thomas explained he was from a company called Gent, Gent Piping and Metal Wares, from Pittsburgh. He could duct up and fix anything they wanted done, and he had a cousin who could help with voice acting. He pulled out a little invention of his, something he called a clean reel, a reel with the same properties of all the others, but erasable simply by dipping into acetone. They all were aware it was a special and handy asset to any animation studio.

 

Lacie rolled hir eyes, saying that she could fix anything Thomas could and fix it better, and robotics were hir specialty. Joey’s eyes lit up, and he quietly begged Henry to let hir show them a model. Henry acquiesced as Joey’s big red brown puppy eyes won him over.

 

Henry was impressed.

 

Thomas and Lacie were both hired, Lacie for robotics and complex machinery, Thomas as a handy man and production analyzer.

 

Wally Franks was hired nearly on accident, but Joey would always call him the best person to break a window. He fell in through the half set pane, and his specific accent completely floored both Henry and Joey. He was a good young man, with a dazzling special grin and wonderful, bouncy, dichotometric personality.

 

Though they had not really needed the assistance, they offered him the janitorial job, which he accepted with a shrug and wink, leaving their presence with a special, “Well, I’m outta here!”

 

(In a slow period as they were filling out paperwork, Henry’s hand wandered onto Joey’s knee.)

 

(Joey’s blush went unnoticed.)

 

(Not really.)

 

Grant Cohen was hired instantly, Joey relaxing and practically vibrating when the accountant showed his skill. Numbers were his specialty, and he had a knack for solving any little problem that proposed itself. Johan was delighted, Henry rolling his eyes and grinning at his business partner’s simple happiness over such a small matter.

 

Shawn Flynn was someone special. A right down cursing and energetic blackguard, he never ceased to make Johan and Henry howl and guffaw with laughter, his special positivity blazing from his unique swears and beautiful smile. Yeah, he wanted to apply as a toy maker. Mhm, knows every stitch in the salmonella filled book. Of course he has fookin’ samples!

 

Joey put the little Bendy in his pocket, adoring it’s special miniature size, and Henry’s Boris ended up on their shared desk.

 

Norman Polk was their last hire for the time, a special bright intelligence simmering out of his eyes, and he introduced himself as a projectionist. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to handle the reels and the stands. He was a special find, not only knowing how to man the projectors, but knew their maintenance in and out.

 

Johan and Henry were ecstatic. They did not get any new drawing hirees, but between the two of them, it was perfect. Nothing more, nothing less than wonderful.

 

Hours spent early in the morning or evening with Wallace telling them that everyone had gone home already. Johan’s arm wrapped over Henry’s shoulders a drunken night after animations were completed, Henry splaying himself over Joey with the migraine that followed the morning after. People noting they leaned toward each other, in more ways than one. It was a glorious time, Diane hardly noticeable as Henry managed to schedule himself better, finding out how to time himself correctly. Joey always reminded him of his girlfriend when it got too late, and it was always a bittersweet moment for the both of them when he went home.

 

Joey would often stay up late, so late, until the wee hours of the morning, escaping to the workshop literally beneath his feet to draw, trying to remove something (the thought of Henry) out of his mind. He always woke up with a blanket over his thin shoulders, and a note from Henry telling him to ‘sleep at normal goddamn hours!’

 

Johan accumulated an entire drawer of these notes.

 

Henry would stand behind him as they spoke of other episodes and new ideas, his arms wrapped around his shoulders as Johan sat and talked, so full of wonderful new ideas.

 

Henry could almost sense his teal eyes go green with the envy of Joey’s plans and stories and concepts. He forced the jealousy from his system, making himself feel happy for their success. Theirs, together.

 

Damn Joey and his infinite ideas.

 

His beautiful mind and heart, so kind and open.

 

Oh, Henry could play on him.

 

He knew how Joey would gaze at him, dreamy and loving.

 

So useable.

 

He began to speak of Diane and Linda more often.

 

Joey pushed back slowly.

 

Hired Bertrum without consulting Henry, but asking Lacie.

 

Henry’s blood was hot at the action, but he was a patient man. He could wait, and he hired Johnny, a sleezy but excellent organist. Johan did not trust nor like him, but Henry had already hired him, so he bit back his concerns, trying to ignore the way Johnny eyed his pride pin. He turned to Bertrum as a safety.

 

Bertrum was like an uncle to Johan, the younger man easily accepting him as such a figure.

 

Called him Uncle Bertie after a few months, the first time Henry hearing it in the late summer. He mentioned it to Lacie, who shrugged and said he started calling him that in the early spring.

It made him furious. He held his cool, though, and simply laughed it off.

 

He will get his revenge soon enough.

 

He thought he had it at one point, when they went to a meeting of their investors.

 

He thought it would be the end of anything pleasant between Johan and Bertrum.

 

“Ah, yes,” Joey grinned, “This is Bertie Piedmont.”

 

Henry held back a smirk at the pink flush on the park maker’s face, the reddish shade so contrasting with his olive skin.

 

“Bertie?” one man snorted. Joey’s eyebrows shot up and he laughed. “What?”

 

“He is my uncle, apologies,” Joey shrugged. “He is Bertrum. Force of habit.”

 

Henry was stunned at the understanding on their investors faces.

 

“But you don’t look anything like each other,” another pointed out.

 

“I’m adopted,” Johan stiffly replied. The man who made the comment blushed and hastily apologized. Joey waved it off. “Now, let’s discuss this - we’ll do a bid.”

 

They returned to the studio with metaphorically much fuller pockets.

 

A shriek interrupted everyone’s work the next day.

 

Sammy looked over at Henry.

 

“Was that Mr. Dre-”

 

The shriek repeated itself, but was suddenly cut off by howls of laughter.

 

“Henr- AHAHAH! HEN, HELP!”

 

Henry rolled his eyes and got up, making his way to where the voice was coming from on the lower levels.

 

Sure enough, Joey was there, on the floor, his wrists held down by a smiling Lacie and his sides being tickled by Bertrum.

 

The long man writhed and guffawed and was on the verge of tears from laughing so hard.

 

Henry felt a grin cross his lips, and he leaned against the wall. Joey somehow managed to notice him, his face darker than ever, and he called out to him.

 

“Please! Henry, help!” he gasped, tears leaking out of his eyes between fits of giggles and laughter. “Henry!”

 

“Oh, I’ll help alright,” he answered, his grin growing as he made his way to them. He leaned down, sitting beside Lacie, and gently brushed his fingers on the underside of Joey’s chin.

 

His eyes widened and he sucked in a breath, before his laughter erupted louder than before.

 

He shook from the abuse, no longer able to even laugh, and he choked on every breath, his face dark maroon and his eyes streaming tears.

 

Henry smirked. This was a good enough revenge for now.

 

They let him up about three minutes later, and as he sat up, he instantly flopped back down, trying to catch his breath.

 

Henry lay beside him on the floor, wrapping an arm around him. Joey put a hand over his.

 

Bertrum and Lacie retreated to the other room, Bertrum saying, “You and I need to talk, Joey.”

 

Joey nodded, eyes closed and face flushed, and he leaned his head on Henry’s golden and pink curls. Henry listened to him breathe, his own breathing unintentionally syncing up to his.

 

Eventually Joey pushed himself off the wooden floor, extending a hand to Henry. Henry took it, standing as Joey tugged him up, their combined effort leaving them sprawling back, Joey landing on a chair with Henry pressed to his chest. Henry felt his, Johan’s, breath hitch.

 

He grinned, pulling himself back off of him.

 

“See you, Joey,” he hummed, making his way back upstairs. Joey blushed even more, simply so stunned by all recent events that he just sat in the chair for another five minutes, getting up with a, “Well then.”

 

He stumbled into the room Bertrum was waiting for him in, and the older man smiled gently when he saw him. He wrapped an arm over Joey’s tall shoulder, pulling him down to sit with him on a couch. He laughed quietly.

 

“Johan, Johan,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Had you been anyone else, I literally would have crushed you like a bug.”

 

Joey laughed nervously.

 

“C’mere, you insolent nephew,” Bertrum tugged him into an awkward but comforting hug. Johan sighed, smiling and relaxing into the touch. “Love you, Joey.”

 

“I love you too, Uncle Bertie,” he replied, hugging him tighter. Lacie’s arms wrapped around both of them. They looked up at hir with gentle smiles. “And you, Aunt Lacie.”

 

“Yeah yeah, cut the sentimentalities,” she muttered. Bertrum rolled his eyes. They stayed like that for a long time, Johan trying to hold onto every moment like it was his last.

 

Disney was gone.

 

What had he done?!

 

What if he lost his temper and deleted someone in his studio!?

 

What if he deleted Bertrum or Lacie?

 

What if he deleted Henry?

 

He would not be able to live with himself.

 

His heart ached as he felt his humanity slowly slipping through his fingers like sand.

 

Other names had joined Disney’s, pinned to the side of the binary computer.

 

Who else would he remove from life, remove from the entirety of the world?

 

That would be in the future. Right now, he was in Bertrum and Lacie’s arms, his family, the whole studio was his family, the only family he ever had, and he swore to never delete any of them. He would do his best to hold onto himself.

 

Despite how much he detested every breath he made.

 

He hated that he was continuously living.

 

He did not deserve it. Only good people deserved to live.

 

He was anything but good.

 

Disgusting.

 

Joey Drew, the man who did not exist, would be better than him.

 

“Johan? Are you okay?” Bertrum’s worried - no, not worried, concerned - concerned voice asked, pulling him out of his mind. Joey hummed in question. “You’re crying.”

 

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “Just tired is all. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

 

“Are you sure?” Lacie asked, putting a hand on his forehead. No temperature, but he leaned into hir touch. “You don’t have a fever.”

 

“I’ll take a nap,” he replied, getting up. Lacie and Bertrum exchanged a look. “Good night.”

 

He stared at the ceiling of his room. The music of the orchestra played beneath him.

 

He looked over at the computer on his desk, feeling sickened. The computer was hooked up to the ink machine downstairs, at first just to monitor the goings on and how much ink was used, then to control it and have ink, _living ink_ , coming from it, the life sapped from those he deleted. Oh, how he regretted it! How he hated it! How he wanted to smash both creations to bits!

 

But he was addicted. It was an escape, a fantasy world, a world where nothing could go wrong and everything stayed right. No bankruptcy, no fights, no competition, no sickness, everything was perfect.

 

Everything but him.

 

He was scared, he was terrified. He knew how easy it was to completely remove someone from ever existing with just two clicks, he had already done it to six people, and he knew the number would grow.

 

He fell asleep while staring at the blinking green line on the screen, his mind plagued by night terrors as he drifted off.

 

“Papa?” he woke up to being poked on the face. Aramis was looking at him, sitting on his chest with a pout. “Papa, get up, I want breakfast.”

 

“Jus’ a second,” he slurred, his motions slow and his head heavy. Aramis tried to pull him up, and Johan made it seem like he did, getting up with each of his child’s tugs. “What do you want to eat?”

 

“Cereal,” the six year old answered. Johan smiled, going to the cabinet and pulling out the box. “That one.”

 

Johan hummed as he pulled down a bowl, opening the box and pouring some out.

 

He screamed.

 

Maggots and blood, and were those bits of brain?!

 

Memories slammed into him.

 

“Aramis!” he shouted, turning to his little boy, tears already pouring down his face. His son’s head was on the table he was slouched on, his eyes glazed over and lips parted. Johan knew what he would see if he lifted his head, but shakily went to him anyways, carefully picking up his head from where it was pressed to the table. The bullet hole straight through his skull made his stomach lurch. Laughter escaped his lips, painful, aching, sobbing laughter, joined by a deep chuckle. He snapped to face the man beside him. “You! Murderer!”

 

Rico simply smiled at him, leaning the shotgun on his shoulder.

 

“You killed my son!”

 

“You let me.”

 

“How could I have known!?”

 

“He was in your arms.”

 

“I couldn’t protect him….”

 

“No. You’re weak, you’re worthless. You couldn’t even save your own child.”

 

“Shut up!”

 

“You let me shoot him while you held him.”

 

“Stop!”

 

“You begged me to not shoot, but you did nothing to stop me.”

 

“Be quiet! Shut up, shut up!”

 

“He’s dead, and it’s all your fault.”

 

“Please, stop,” Johan fell to his knees, the blood of his son covering his shirt. He could taste his blood and bone on his lips. “Ricky, please, make it all stop… please… please just kill me….”

 

“You’re sick.”

 

“Rico….”

 

A slap sent him sprawling onto the floor, his legs splayed with numbness, the polio inching into every muscle and nerve. A kick to his face made him cough numbers, the ones and zeros escaping his mouth.

 

He was yanked up by his messy hair, his step brother smiling at him.

 

“Smile back, Johan,” he said in a sing song tone. Joey forced his lips up. “Good boy.”

 

He slammed him back to the floor.

 

“Keep smiling!”

 

The shotgun cocked, and Johan found it shoved in his face.

 

“Three!”

 

“Rico! Please, please, wait wait wait!”

 

“I thought you wanted me to end it all?”

 

“I don’t know!” he wailed.

 

“Two!”

 

“Please no! God, please wait, please, no, wait!”

 

“One!”

 

“Rico!”

 

The gun fired, time slowing, Johan able to see the bullet slowly making its way to him.

 

He stared at the golden shell, his eyes widening, his lips parting, and

 

He woke up, gasping, clutching at his hearts, his other hand scrambling against his sheets, trying to find a grip to hold on to.

 

He stumbled to the computer, typing in the formula for the numbing solution, feeling himself disconnect with each virtual dose.

 

He drooped against the wall, sighing with relief as the pain vanished.

 

Hehe… who was Aramis again? Oh, right, his son. Dead son. Baby shot in his arms. Right. Blood. Mmm. Blood. He had blood, right? He did not like it. His blood made him feel scared for some reason. Some stupid reason. Stupid. He was stupid. Yeah. He reached up to administer another shot.

 

Rico. Step brother? Horrible man. Hated him. Both of them hated each other. Ricky was going to inherit everything that should have been left for him because their mother, Johan’s birth mother, wrote him out of the will. Another click, more numbness overtaking him.

 

Why did she write him out again?

 

More ones and zeros transferred into his system, relaxing more and more, a dopey smile on his lips. He was feeling much better.

 

He caught his reflection in his window. The rainbow on his chest glinted at him.

 

Oh, right! That’s why!

 

Gay!

 

He was fucking gay!

 

He liked men!

 

How fucked up is that, huh!?

 

Worthless!

 

He grinned, wide and would be painful if not for the drug in his body.

 

Gay means happy! Be happy!

 

Keep smiling!

 

Keep smiling!

 

You’re worthless, you should not own this company, even beside the man you love!

 

Joey Drew, what a liar! What a thief!

 

He would be much better than Johan Ramirez ever could be.

 

He would be better in every regard.

 

If only his workers could see beyond the mask, if they knew who Johan Ramirez was, and not Joey Drew, they would hate him, they would jeer at him, they would spit and curse at him.

 

He clicked thrice more, hissing as the sting hit his brain, giggling when the invisible narcotic seeped into his neurons.

 

He would remove it all in the morning and let the pain sink in. But right then, he did not want to remember. He wanted to not feel.

 

He giggled.

 

How pathetic.

 

“Joey, you alright?” Allison, Susie’s apprentice and possible partner asked him. He looked up from animating, dark circles under his eyes. “You, no offence, you look awful, Mr. Drew.”

 

“M’fine, thank you for asking,” he mumbled, returning to his work. Allison looked at him uneasily. He seemed drunk, in a way. But he did not show any signs of drinking or drugs. He waved her off. “I’m sure Susie is waiting for you, dear.”

 

She looked at him for another moment before slipping away, leaving Joey alone. Henry was not in today because he was with Diane, so that left Joey with all the work.

 

He was fine.

 

Henry had made a new character recently, an “Alice Angel”, and Joey was trying to get the hang of drawing her.

 

She reminded him too much of Diane.

 

That was probably who Henry based her on.

 

His heart ached with each stroke.

 

It took him four hours to finish the short.

 

He sighed, getting up with a huff, and was startled to see Johnny looking at him with a smirk, blocking the doorway by leaning on it.

 

“He-llo, Mr. Drew,” he said, looking over him with a meticulous laziness. Joey felt exposed, and he shifted where he stood. Johnny got off the doorpost, closing and… oh god, he locked the door. “You’re looking good.”

 

Red flags literally swarmed Johan’s vision as he backed up.

 

“Come now, Johnny, I, uh, don’t thin-”

 

Johnny chuckled, and he stalked over to Joey in four quick steps.

 

“Joey, let’s not think.”

 

His hand pressed to his chest and shoved him against the wall.

 

“You’re gay, right?” Johnny smirked at him, eyes narrow as he knocked his legs out from under him. Johan looked up at him in fear. “So you wouldn’t mind helping a guy out, hmm?”

 

“That’s not how being gay works!” he retorted, trying to scramble away, but Johnny’s hand held him down. “Stop, let me g-”

 

“Shh,” Johnny’s hand pressed to his mouth, the other undoing his belt. Joey squirmed and tried to escape from his grip, but his knee pressed to his chest and forced him to stay against the wall. Johnny rolled his eyes at his struggles. “Joey, the less you fight, the sooner I’ll let you go.”

 

Joey screamed against his hand.

 

Not again!

 

Please, no!

 

No no no no no no no n-

 

He could not breathe.

 

Johnny zipped back up his pants, leaving the choking Johan on his knees.

 

He leaned down to him.

 

“Swallow.”

 

He did, feeling disgusting, feeling so horrible and weak.

 

Johnny smirked, satisfied.

 

He left.

 

Johan gasped, still tasting bitterness on his tongue, rubbing his arms and shaking.

 

He saw wetness on the floor, a mix of the devil’s drink and his own tears.

 

He was crying, and he could not stop, his pinkened vision blurry and shuddering. He gripped his arms as he trembled, his throat raw.

 

He stumbled up, trying to make out what to do. Henry was out, and he would be terrified to talk to him of all people about this. Bertrum and Lacie were out scoping a site that they could use. He pulled himself up, stumbling out. Sammy. Sammy. Sammy Lawrence.

 

He tried to call for him, but his voice came out as a croak.

 

He stiffly made his way down to the man’s office. He knocked on his door. Sammy, at first irritated at the interruption, froze when he beheld the artist.

 

“Joey! What happened, you look terrible!” he gasped, pulling him into his office and pulling down the shades. Joey opened his mouth to speak, but he could not get a sound out. Tears splashed onto Sammy’s desk, and he carefully patted his back. He tried to sooth him with his softest tones. “There there, Joey, it’s alright. You can tell me what happened.”

 

Joey sobbed, burying his face against Sammy’s chest, wrapping his arms around the music director.

 

He told him everything, and begged and pleaded for him not to tell anyone.

 

Sammy clearly was appalled, but he acquiesced, scowling at the thought of someone even _thinking_ of doing what was done.

 

Joey was a mess over the next few days, slowly, slowly getting better.

 

Things seemed to finally start looking up, though he did not fire Johnny. He was scared of the questions that would follow. He did not want anyone else to know.

 

Sammy would be there for him when he needed.

 

His computer was always ready to give him another boost of impossible drugs.

 

His nightmares became more frequent, more souls deleted, more strain in the studio between workers, and he could only watch things fall apart.

 

Henry seemed to cause so many of the rifts and strifes, and Joey did not like it. Henry caused fights and arguments and splits, but Johan could do nothing about it. He could only watch the damage.

 

Henry and Diane became engaged.

 

Joey felt like vomiting, but he congratulated him, went up to his room, and just numbed himself like he always did.

 

Henry’s marriage approached.

 

The night before.

 

Joey was going to be his best man.

 

He and Henry had a bottle of strawberry champagne, another two bottles drained by their feet in the hotel room.

 

Henry was going to be married.

 

Joey was drinking to numb himself. The alcohol was jarring to his system a system already used to and addicted to the virtual version.

 

Henry was on his lap, Joey playing with his hair between glasses.

 

Henry’s lips latched onto his neck and collar, and he gasped, shocked.

 

“What are you doing?” he whispered, confused. Henry chuckled, licking Joey’s neck, making him squirm. “Henry, you’re going to be married, tomorrow!”

 

“Exactly,” he muttered, continuing to kiss his neck. “Joey, this is the last time you can be with me. Do you want it?”

 

“I… Henry….”

 

“Joey.”

 

“I can’t…” Joey gasped, gripping Henry’s shoulders. Henry froze. “I won’t let you cheat on Diane, no matter if I want something or not.”

 

“Johan,” Henry chuckled, kissing him in that one sweet spot that would melt him, that one place no goddamn person would even think of, right under where his jawline met his ear, making him moan. He nibbled the spot, Joey gasping and wriggling under him, one hand tightening on Henry’s shoulder, the other tangled in blonde and strawberry curls. “She’s not here right now.”

 

“Henry, it’s not right,” he breathed, pushing him back. “You can’t do this.”

 

“I can and I will,” Henry pouted, eyes narrowed. Joey smiled at him sadly. Henry kept up the unspoken staring contest for some time before sighing and lowering his head. “You’re right.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Henry got up, picking Joey up. Joey tucked his head to Henry’s heart, listening to it beat.

 

“We don’t need to have sex, you know,” Henry murmured, taking them both to the king size bed, gently putting Joey down and slipping on after. Joey’s hand came to rest on his cheek. Henry leaned close, their breath mingling. “Can I kiss you?”

 

“Henry….” Joey whispered, closing his eyes. “I love you.”

 

Henry swallowed roughly, and pressed his lips to Joey’s.

 

Johan whimpered, wrapping his arms around him.

 

They laid down, their lips still in the kiss, arms wrapped around each other, tears silently making their way onto silk pillows. Johan shook with silent sobs. Henry trembled with locked emotions.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

They woke up in the middle of the night, sobered up, tangled together, their foreheads pressed together, and neither wanted to let go.

 

 

They kissed again, trying to hold onto being together.

 

As the minutes ticked by, the wedding became nearer and nearer, and it ripped out Johan’s heart. It was not fair, they both knew it.

 

“Joey, you know why we can’t be together.”

 

“I know.”

 

“We’d be killed for it….”

 

“I know. Henry, I’d die for you….”

 

“Joey… don’t make this harder than it needs to be….”

 

“You’re going to be married soon, Henry, I know, I hope you can be happy with her….”

 

Their kisses lasted until the afternoon, tangled together, weeping silently over the pain of the stigmas and laws tearing them apart.

 

Joey took him to the altar, giving away the man he loved more than anything in all the universes.

 

He mouthed the words with Diane, tears in his eyes as he whispered, “I do.”

 

He spoke, his eyes trained on Henry, Henry’s on his, as he spoke of how happy he was for him, how much he wished the best for him, how much he was glad to have met him and how special he was to him.

 

So special.

 

Henry went on his honeymoon, leaving Joey alone again in the studio. He numbed himself every night, pumping his code full of the addictive chemical.

 

When Henry came back, he did not say a word to Joey.

 

It hurt.

 

So much, it ripped at whatever was left of his heart, it clawed at his brain and thoughts, it _hurt._

 

Henry still caused problems with the other workers.

 

He would argue and mess around with parts and music.

 

Tension rose.

 

He still refused to talk to Joey.

 

Johan let him get away with it.

 

Complaints rose.

 

Especially from the junior animators he hired in Henry’s absence.

 

Johan tried to keep the peace, but he did not talk to Henry, he would wait for him to come to him, holding himself back from causing a scene.

 

Until he gave in.

 

Joey confronted him.

 

“Henry, we need to talk about what you’re doing.”

 

“My job?” Henry cocked an eyebrow, folding his arms. His golden ring glinted brightly. Joey swallowed roughly. “I do it.”

 

“Yes, but people are complaining about how you act,” Johan bolstered his courage. “You’ve been very… aggressive as of late, though it’s gotten worse after your marriage.”

 

“Johan, Johan,” Henry chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I own half this company, I can act as I please.”

 

“Henry, that’s just another reason for you to act properly,” Joey insisted. Henry scowled. “Be a role model, not only for this company, but for your daughter!”

 

“You know nothing about being a father,” Henry snarled. Joey felt his lips twitch, snaking into an incredulous grin. “You don’t!”

 

“Henry, I helped you raise Linda,” Joey smiled, his eyebrows joining in pain as he recalled a small hand in his. He choked, tearing up. “I had a son, too.”

 

Henry fell silent, the retort on his lips vanishing.

 

“I know what it’s like to want to give your child everything,” he whispered, smiling as he remembered Aramis’ smile when he gave him gifts and candies. “My sweet little boy….”

 

“What happened to him? Is he with his mother?”

 

“He’s dead. He was going to turn six this year.”

 

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Henry froze, looking at him with some horror. “Wait. How old are you, again?”

 

Joey could not breathe.

 

“Johan! Answer me!”

 

“Twenty one,” he whispered, biting his lip. Henry stared at him. “Aramis… he… I… they tried to fix me. Tried to make me not gay. Thought that if they… if they made me… h-have… have a child… thought it would fix me. I was sixteen.”

 

“Joey….”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He was high as a kite that night, giggling to himself as he continuously pumped himself full of the numerical drug. Another two names joined the lengthy list of deleted lives, the number raising to twenty seven. The ink machine rumbled with contentedness beneath him.

 

He still giggled as he cried.

 

He hated the addiction.

 

Joey Drew would be a better person, at least he would probably kill people in their face rather than removing them from existence while cowardly hiding away.

 

The resignation killed him.

 

Henry left.

 

Henry said something about putting more time into his family life and school work.

 

Henry did not meet his eye as he said it, stuttering on the word family.

 

He twisted his ring uneasily.

 

Joey nodded, he knew that Diane wanted Henry to quit, she had even voiced it in Joey’s presence. They both knew the real reason.

 

“I love you,” he whispered as he hugged his best and closest friend for a final time.

 

“I love you, too,” Henry choked out, gripping him. They stayed like that for a long time. Henry pulled away. “I’ll see you around?”

 

“Yeah, of course, feel free to come by whenever you want.”

 

Joey knew he would not, as did Henry.

 

Joey did not drug himself that night. He just cried. He cried and cried until the morning light dried his tears.

 

It was his twenty second birthday, and he cut his arms this year as well, the even eleven and eleven on each arm, adding a new snick on his left arm.

 

Perfectly even.

 

Nothing right, nothing good.

 

Joey Drew would be a much better person than Johan Ramirez.

 

Joey Drew would not be a coward.

 

Joey Drew would not be sick.

 

Johan Ramirez was disgusting, a fraud, a freak, a liar.

 

Joey Drew was his mask.

 

People liked Joey Drew. They liked Bendy the Demon. They liked the moving ink.

 

Johan Ramirez? No one even knew him.


	3. Lobotomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT  
> there is a lot of very heavy things in this chapter!!! therefore, i am setting warnings via bolding the first line of extreme/more graphic assault and making lines to separate them  
> and italicizing the start and ends of graphic gore

He could not hold the ink vial steady.

Jittery, oh so shaky. His hands shook and trembled, and he constantly had to adjust his grip on the pen as he drew the cartoons. He tried not to scream. Every moment, every day, he tried to hold back the aching cry in his chest, clawing at his lungs.

He tried for so hard for so long, and he was so tired… so so tired… he could sleep forever… and ever… and never wake up….

He wanted to see Aramis again… he wanted to see his father again… he wanted to join them, wherever they were, he wanted to be with his family, his family that was torn away from him so quickly, so young… he was so young, and he felt so old, so tired, his bones creaking, his muscles failing, his head aching, his hands stiff and shaky, everything so ruinous and decimated. So corrupted, so disgusting.

What a waste of space.

Johan stayed as far away from the binary computer as possible, hiding in the corner of his bed as the bright, toxic, addictive green beckoned him, he hating every time he gave in to the temptation, giggling the night away as numerical dopamine filled his brain and limbs.

He would never amount to anything, only ones and zeros.

Henry filled his dreams, his, unreal, ghostlike, lips pressed to his, and Joey regretted ever allowing him to kiss him, now trapped by this reminder that they could never be together.

He drank often, now not only using the invisible drug but also the alcohol to drain away his emotions. Bertrum tried to get him to talk, Shawn tried to cheer him up (he accidentally snapped at the Irishman, guilt flooding his system, apologizing a day later), Susie offered to take him to a nice coffee shop (when was the last time he left the studio?), Grant asked if he wanted help with his math, everyone spoke quietly about him behind his back, discussing if anyone should go out and find Henry and get him to visit them, as Joey was clearly losing his grip on reality, if he ever even had one.

He was lost, confused, and more alone than ever, the loneliness of being surrounded by people you do not dare tell your problems to.

So many names flooded the desk with the computer on it, the ink machine always hungry for more souls to chip away at.

Black, black ink, swallowing him up, drowning him.

He drowned himself in his work, creating more formulas on his computer to help him do more work in less time, like the insomnia code, the two times speed code, all little bits and pieces to create the toons faster.

He hated Alice Angel.

Not really.

Hatred is when one destests something, as an eye color or a sickness, hatred is a severe aversion to something, as to the sight of blood or the mentioning of higher beings, hatred is a passionate desire to see something utterly removed, like competition or step siblings.

He did not hate Alice Angel. He felt melancholic toward her, feeling saddened and hurt.

She did nothing wrong, afterall, she could do nothing aside from what she was made to do.

It hurt to draw her.

Such a lovely character, such flow, such grace, so beautiful. Everything Henry made was so beautiful, so wonderful, such a stunning creation.

Johan knew he was losing touch with reality.

He put on a bigger and better act.

Be Joey Drew.

Be the man that would be better than you in every possible way.

Be confident, be intelligent, be suave, be smart, be cunning, and smile!

Smile.

Keep grinning, even though your smile is the most disgusting thing to darken the earth, such a pitiful and stretched smile.

Pathetic. Useless, unnecessary piece of scrapable coding.

The abuse he hissed within his own mind kept him smiling.

At least someone could tell how much of a burden he was.

Even if it was just himself.

People noticed his change in attitude, but quickly learned not to mention it.

A quiet, “Really now?” seemed more dangerous than any threat.

Were there not more workers here before?

Were there?

No one remembered that there were more workers.

Joey did not erase them.

He did not.

He did not.

He did not.

Please….

He did not.

He stared at the computer and the list of fired workers, fired for incompetence and lack of productivity, and he was terrified that he would delete them.

He did not want to, and he forced himself back from the thought of ever doing it.

Never. He could not give in to the addiction.

Then he realized what happened.

He no longer needed the computer to erase someone, he found that out much to his horror and abhorrence. He had been watching a worker, after doing nothing for a week, getting drunk in the public room. Johan was about to go over and fire, him, wishing to delete him instead, but not wanting to fall to the temptation, when the man was gone. Erased.

Without the computer.

Johan ran to his room, hiding from himself, shaking with disgust and terror.

He vomited. Blood, ink, and numbers spilled from his insides.

What had he done to himself?

What was he?

He shakily grabbed a knife, preparing to dig into his skin to find out what sort of demon was hiding in the body of a human, but threw away the knife as soon as the blade reached his skin.

It embedded with a _crack_ in his mirror.

He stared at his reflection, nonchalantly noting that the knife was directly on his throat, cutting his head from his body.

It made him giggle.

Oh, what fun!

Lose one’s head?!

Fun! Magical, airy, freeing!

His giggle turned into laughter, and the laughter erupted into howls, the howls into sobs.

He dropped his head between his knees as he cried.

He felt the buzz of the drug being slipped into his system, and he jolted up violently, stumbling to the computer, trying to stop himself. He collapsed in front of the glowing device, removing the narcotic from his body.

He grounded himself.

He tangled his hair in his hands, screaming, screaming louder than he ever had, louder than when his father and later his son were killed, putting all his pain and frustrations into releasing through his mouth, screaming to say that yes, he was here, yes, he was hurting, yes, he needed help, god, please, help him! Someone, anyone, for the love of anything good, help him!

Help!

Please… help…

H-help….

Hel-

A knock on his door.

He leapt to his feet.

Who the hell?

“Mista Drew?” Wallace, Wally Franks, asked, his voice muffled and uneasy. “Are ya alright?”

Joey stumbled to the door, dropping the facade, pulling it open and miserably collapsing onto the janitor.

“Oof!” Wally staggered under his height, not his weight, as the man hardly weighed a feather, and stood, stunned, as Joey shook on him. “Well, uh… alright? You okay? Something happen?”

“Wally, you’re such a good boy,” Joey sobbed, his mind registering the fact the man he was crying on was older than him by a year. But he felt so old… so so old… so tired…. “You’re always positive, you always make everyone around so happy, especially your boyfriends, and it’s so wonderful, you’re such a good person….”

“Ya not so bad either, Mista Drew,” Wally questioningly offered, awkwardly patting his boss’ back. Joey laughed a moment before breaking down into another wave of sobs.

“Oh, shit, what are the comfort words,” Wally muttered, scrambling in his brain to look for the right thing to say. “There there?”

Another strangled laugh escaped Johan.

Wally’s eyes wandered into Johan’s apartment, and he gasped.

“Your place is a mess!”

“S’not that bad,” Joey wheezed, gripping the darker man tightly. Wally shoved him carefully back into his home, settling Joey on the couch. Joey grabbed his wrist, looking at him with an almost intoxicated expression, breathing hard. “Please… please don’t leave me alone….”

Wally pulled his hand away, eyeing the cane on the floor. He set it beside the chicano, and got to tidying the room. He was startled at the lack of food in the fridge, he was uneasy at the amount of bottles lining the shelves, but worst of all were the sticky notes of just ones and zeros. The numbers clearly meant something to Drew, whose head was currently in his hands as he trembled with silent sobs.

The room was clean after an hour. Joey sat him down, and mumbled a, “Wait here.”

He came out of his room with two hundred dollars, giving them to Wally.

“Thank you,” he quietly told the janitor, and Wally’s chest constricted as he saw the absolute sincerity in Joey’s eyes. “For everything. You’re a great worker, and such a nice person. All my wishes for you are for the best.”

“Mista Drew, ya don’t need to gi-”

Joey cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t be silly, Wally,” he huffed with a light smile. He looked so tired. “Keep the money. I don’t have anything to spend it on, anyways.”

Wally reluctantly pocketed the bills.

He tipped his cap and walked out.

“I’m outta here,” he said, shrugging and smiling, “See ya tomorrow, Mista Drew.”

Johan came to wish he never did.

The next day started normal enough, with disgusting coffee (nothing he put in it seemed to make it taste any better, so he went to his computer with a huff and reset his energy from twenty five to one hundred percent), going down to his office, and reviewing the meetings he had planned for the day.

He met with the doctor, who frowned and informed him that he lost more weight and his polio was worsening. Joey had nothing to say in response, merely hanging his head in shame at such a pathetic body. The doctor smiled and tapped him, telling him to keep his chin up.

He said he would try.

He was informed of a mecha leak in the spider ride, followed by an ink spill in the same location, and how they would have to wait a day for the ink and oil to seperate to drain it.

He had another two meetings before the one he dreaded approached.

Jonathan Derekson.

Johnny the organist.

He tried animating to calm his nerves, tried drinking some tea, tried to breathe, but nervousness clouded all his actions. He was terrified. So he straightened his jacket, adjusted his pin, and sat down, stopping his pacing.

Johnny appeared in the doorway, leaning in it. Joey’s vision blurred, his memories meshing with the present.

“Hello, Mr. Drew,” Johnny smiled, looking down at the tall man seated and pale in his office chair. “My concerns are on the organ. So if you please, I’ll join you upstairs as you are bound to use the…” his eyes landed on Joey’s cane, and his smirk grew as Joey flushed, “elevator. I’ll take the stairs.”

“Alright.” Johan forced his voice to be clear and not meek. Not unassertive. He had to be strong, no matter how much he wanted to lash out and avoid this man. He made his way out the door, waiting for Johnny to leave first. “I’ll meet you there.”

He got up achingly, pushing himself up with his cane. So slowly, little steps, his eyes drifting shut with exhaustion. How did he run out of energy so quickly? Why was he so tired? So… very… tired….

“Joey, wake up,” a hand on his arm shook him out of his stupor. Grant was gazing at him with worry. Not concern, but worry. He was already on the elevator, when had that happened? “Joey, are you alright? You look… well, putting it frankly, really unhealthy. Are you sick or something?”

Grant reached up to feel the sides of his neck, checking for a fever. Nothing.

Johan looked at him blearily.

“I’m okay, just tired,” Joey sighed, and smiled (SMILE SMILE SMILE) at Grant. “I’ll see you in a few hours Mr. Cohen. As a quick go over, things are well, I assume?”

“Yes, Mr. Drew,” Grant smiled back and nodded. His smile was so much nicer, so much more real, so much purer and cleaner than Joey’s could ever be. “Far better than if anyone else ran this business. I’m honestly shocked by how much you alone make a week! Two animations for each one of the animators’, and running this whole place on top of it! It’s rather unbelievable.”

“Anything can happen with a little belief,” Joey remarked, forcing his smile wider. Just keep believing it will all be over soon. Grant nodded. Joey wanted to ask him for help, for comfort, for something, anything to ground him. Instead, he got off the elevator, and said, “See you soon.”

 **He drummed his knees** , his useless knees, as he waited for Johnny in the organ room.

* * *

 _Being slammed to the wall, a hand on his che_ -

Stop.

_Choking on something that absolutely should not be in his mo-_

STOP.

_Chuckles and grunts and wood in his hands, gripping his pants in silent ple-_

S T O P.

* * *

 

 **His hands slammed** on the organ’s keys, panting heavily as he leaned over it, his vision pulsing. Breathe. Breathe. It was over. It would not happen again.

It would not.

There was nothing to worry about.

Nothing. At. All.

He looked at the stark white keys against his black hands.

He was not a mexican of a proper, royal, spanish descent.

No.

He always was from the lower class, his ancestors being whatever slaves were left of Mayans, one of his predecessors was a wife to a conquistador, who fell in love with her as they established an encomienda. The wars and fights!

He hated them.

He set his fingers to the keys.

His father moved them to Night Vale when Johan was two, and he loved it. The town was so warm and inviting, even though quite frightening at first.

He loved Night Vale, and hated, absolutely detested, when he had to leave.

He was seventeen.

His son was killed in his arms not two months before.

He had to get out.

He had to.

Running away was so easy. He only got shot once!

The scar on his arm from it hardly bothered him anymore, most of the bullet fragments dissolved by the toxic ink flowing in his system.

It was picking himself up that was difficult.

Other people would not have such difficulty.

Something was so wrong with him.

So very wrong.

Wrong can mean so many wonderful things! Like something inside out, like a skin that did not fit, blistering and infectious. It can also define something avvering from the truth, a liar, a facade, a faker. Being improper, out of the norm, an outlier, queer, those are all wrong things. Wrong is when one is out of order, a mess, broken down, falling apart, lost. When your morals are turned on their head. When you no longer can control yourself. That is wrong.

Johan knew he was so wrong.

Such a blight.

A curse. A ruin. Broken. Queer. Wrong. Wrong wrong wro-

An off key note drew him back to the right reality, not the one in his mangled and twisted brain.

He swallowed, replacing his long, bony, macilent hands on the keys.

He trembled.

He needed help.

He needed someone, anyone, to help him.

He was terrified to ask.

He let out a sob.

“Let me introduce you to the voices in my head….”

He did not even realize he was singing.

He could not stop.

Tears splashed from his eyes.

He yelled the verses that just came to him, lines he was certain would be written in the future.

He sobbed, hoping someone would hear him as he played and sang.

“So won't you save me from myself right now,” he asked the universes, hoping one of them would have one being that could hear his cry, how wrong he knew he was, hoping something could fix him, repair his coding, make him feel better, not feel like he was in someone else’s spot. “'Cause I feel like someone else, somehow….”

His plea died down as the last key faded.

His shoulders shook, so lost, so conflicted, hurting and aching internally and externally, mentally and physically.

**Arms wrapped over his shoulders.**

* * *

 

“It’s alright, Mr. Drew,” Johnny hummed in his ear, his voice sending horror and pain shooting through his body. Please, never call him that again, that was not who he was. Please, leave him alone, there were only two people that he would rather not have around more than Johnny. Johnny slipped on the piano bench behind him, his legs on either side of Johan’s hips. His hand pressed onto Johan’s mouth. No no no not again, please…. Johan’s vision doubled over, Johnny was in front of him but he felt him behind him, and reality was phasing into memory and memory was smudging into reality, and he could not tell which was which. He suddenly felt like a wronged animal. He had to get away. He had to escape. He jolted in an attempt, but his legs gave out. Damn polio! Damn it, damn it, damn him! Johnny chuckled, flipping their positions, pressing Joey to the piano bench. Joey whimpered, unable to fight back or scream. “Come on, it’s not like you didn’t enjoy last time.”

Johan saw red, yellow error signs swarming everything.

“I DO NOT WANT THIS!” he screamed, his voice shaking the very core of the studio. Johnny looked shocked, then angered, but Joey was too far lost, to fed up, too fatigued and ill. He tried to escape again, but Johnny was so much stronger and held him down with an enraged ease, so all Johan could do was scream. “I DID NOT ENJOY WHAT YOU DID TO ME! YOU FORCED ME TO MY KNEES, YOU MADE ME GIVE YOU WHAT YOU WANTED, I DID NOT WANT IT! I DID NOT LIKE IT! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! GET OFF O-”

Johnny’s hand pushed back onto his mouth. He cried out against it, writhing and struggling.

“I’ll make you like it, this time,” Johnny snarled with a feral grin, his free hand undoing Johan’s belt, making him scream again, muffled once more. Johnny’s hand felt him up, smirking at Joey’s discomfort and clearly hated unwilling pleasure as he struggled beneath him, tears blazing out of his eyes. “You can let yourself enjoy it, or I’ll force you.”

Johan struggled against him, a banging barely audible on the door.

He tried to call for help, but Johnny hit him, grabbing him by his lapel and slamming him onto the piano bench repeatedly, knocking the wind out of him, making him gasp and writhe. Johnny covered his mouth again, hooking a hand into his pants and trying to pull them down.

 

* * *

 

**Johan saw _hate_.**

Joey forced Johnny’s hand off his mouth, punching him as hard as he could.

“Get….” he felt pain and anger and hate hate hate hate hate hate HATE welling up within him, and power burst out of every pore, “OFF!”

There was a flashing, bright light, a miniature atomic bomb, rattling the walls of every building in the city. Johan could feel the ink pulsing out of him, he could feel his code rearranging and snapping into place, he could feel hate and PAIN.

He knew it was his own pain.

It was all wrong.

He whited out.

When he came too, there was the taste of blood on his lips. It was not his blood.

He dizzily got up, his ears ringing.

He saw the feet dangling in his pulsing vision.

Oh no… oh no no no….

He looked up.

Johnny’s body dangled before him.

* * *

 _Johnny_ was pressed into the organ, nearly flattened to it, his hands splayed with his fingers hanging limply in the skin, the joints dislocated, the metal of the piping warping around each visceral limb, as though an explosion forced him into the essence of the organ. His skull was crushed, his eyes forced out of and swaying from their sockets, his jaw slack and unhinged, his tongue slack and dripping red blood and clear saliva, a dark taunting pink. His blood splayed everywhere, his blood all over Joey, his black suit stained maroon. His blood was dripping in his hair and staining on his glasses, on his once white pants, and Joey? He turned over and retched. There was nothing in his system but ink and numbers mixed with acid, and blood.

* * *

 _Blood_ , the one liquid he hated most.

He vomited again, tears dripping onto the floor, coupling with the sound of Johnny’s blood doing the same.

He could hear pounding on the door through the ringing in his ears.

“Joey! Open this door! Johnny! Open up!” Jack’s voice barked, but he sounded so far away, like he was underwater. “Damnit, someone find Wally! Or his keys, at least!”

“Help,” Johan choked out. Silence suddenly took over the bable outside. “Help me… help… oh help… please… oh god, what did I do… help….”

“Joey, open the door,” Jack demanded, but in a softer tone. A strangled noise escaped the artist. Jack huffed in exasperation. “I’m getting Sammy.”

Johan pushed himself up, leaning against the wall, forcing himself not to look at Johnny’s mangled corpse.

He inched his way to the door.

“Joey, open the door,” Sammy’s soothing voice asked. “It’s just me.”

Johan gripped the handle.

“Sammy?” he whimpered, his voice cracking and high. A low hum of acknowledgement followed. “Please don’t get mad.”

“I won’t.”

Johan shut his eyes as tight as he could, pulling open the door, his head lowered in shame.

“What did you do?” Sammy gently asked him, Joey standing directly in front of the scene, blocking it from view. The blood glistened on his suit, and Sammy, suddenly sensing the urgency and (unfortunately, he did not notice) the delicacy of the situation, looked over Johan. His eyes widened as he beheld the gore on his employer’s clothing, how disheveled the articles were on his body from the molestation, and his head snapped up to look him in the eye, seeing the tears and the distress he was in. “What did you do, Joey?”

“I… I didn’t want to,” Johan whispered, and stepped back, moving to allow Sammy to see. Agonizing pain, guilt, anger, and loss drowned him as he tried to explain. “He… he was… he wanted… I couldn’t stop him… he wouldn’t get off… I… I….”

“What the goddamn fuck,” Sammy breathed, feeling disgust well within him. A fear of the unnatural joined it, and he spun to face Johan, gesturing at Johnny’s limp form. “What did you do?! What the fuck?! You _murdered_ him, but how the hell?! What did you do?!”

“I-I don’t know, I’m sorry!” Joey stuttered, hunching over and gripping his head as it threatened to split. “I… he was… I couldn’t let him do it again, Sammy, I! He… ARGH! I don’t! KNOW! Please, please don’t tell anyone what he was going to do….”

“Everyone knows, Joey,” he informed him calmly. Joey stared at him in horror. Sammy pointed at the ‘Recording’ sign. The bright yellow ‘ON’ was lit up, making Johan’s stomach turn. “Everyone heard what was happening.”

“Sammy, please, then help me cover this up,” he begged. Sammy shook his head. “Then keep people away while I deal with it!”

“Joey… you need some help.” Sammy firmly stated, taking his wrist. Joey yanked it away violently, his eyes wide and fearful. “Come on. I’m turning you in to professionals.”

“Sammy, no!” Joey gasped, trying not to choke on his tears. Sammy scowled and took his wrist again, more staunchly. Johan, yanked on it as the music director began pulling him out of the hall, attempting to force him to the infirmary. “Don’t you know what they would do to me!? Sammy, haven’t you heard of how awful those places are?!”

“You need to go.” Sammy insisted, turning to him with a blank expression. Johan’s heart shattered again as he took in his mask. “You’ve gone too far.”

“I won’t even make it to the institutions… Sammy, they’ll take me to court,” he whimpered, even as Sammy dragged him further, no longer planning on the infirmary, but heading straight to the police. Allison and Susie stared at the two men, Thomas joining the women, exchanging a look, then the three of them collectively making their way to the pair. “Then they’ll kill me. I’ve got a low intelligence, I’m mexican, and I’m gay, Sammy, I’ve murdered someone in self defense, but they’ll kill me….”

“Take it as a mercy, then.”

Johan snapped, feeling… feeling… feeling….

He saw the coding flash before his eyes.

Just numbers.

Move some from here to there.

Do it.

Do it, everything will be better.

Everything will be okay.

You have no choice, move the numbers, NOW.

Johan gasped as reality sank back in. His hand was on Sammy’s shoulder, and the musician….

Sammy dropped to his knees, his jaw hanging open, and his eyes wide and dull.

Suddenly, shrilly, he shrieked, his hands tugging on his hair.

“BETRAYED! ABANDONED!” he shouted, anger and hurt simmering out of his enraged and distraught voice. “LEFT TO SUFFER, LED TO SLAUGHTER!”

Johan stared at the man he turned insane. He did this. He backed up as Sammy continued his screams of loss and forsakenness.

This was how Johan was feeling.

Sammy was merely out putting the data.

A hand slammed Johan’s head against the wall.

Thomas glared at him when the sparks died down.

“What the hell did you do, Drew?!” he snapped, gesturing an arm at Sammy. “What is this black magic bullshit!?”

“Hk… hhh….” was all Johan managed to choke out, tears and blood clotting his throat. Thomas smacked him again, letting him slide down the wall, and stormed over to Allison, taking his best friend by her arm. Sadness filled Johan at the sight of Susie reaching to her beloved, everything sounding so far away as his head spun from it’s abuse. Thomas was tearing them apart… stop. Stop! “Tom… you’re hurting th’m… stop….”

Thomas rushed at him, anger blazing in his eyes.

The kick landed on Johan’s skull before he could even register he was near.

Blood and numbers splattered out of his lips.

“Don’t you fucking dare start,” Thomas hissed as he coughed and wheezed. “I’ll be back for Sammy and Wally.”

Johan only was aware of the stress levels in the room rising higher and higher, Susie and Allison gesturing toward him in distress, Thomas adamantly shaking his head, and he grasped Allison’s wrist again, pulling her away.

Johan saw the stress rise.

He was hurting them.

Tom was hurting them.

All they wanted was to be together.

“St’p,” he slurred again. Thomas did not listen, and Johan felt anger build up in him. He pushed himself up to stand against the wall. He could only hear Allison and Susie’s upset voices. “Stop!”

There was another flash of all the numbers. Without thinking, Johan pushed the glowing ones and zeros into the blinking slot, shoving back the menacing, dripping ones, the ones that reminded him all too much of a fallen angel.

Another bang.

Allison was no longer in Thomas’ grip, as he slammed back into the wall, shattering something.

She looked at her hands.

With her, at the same time, Susie looked at hers.

There were only two hands.

The amalgamated being shrieked, stumbling back over a chair, slumping into in a faint.

Johan stared.

“Heh… haha… hehehehehesssssssskkk….”

What the hell was that?

“Ha! Hahaha! Heh, hehehe-HK!”

Johan slapped a hand to his mouth.

He shook with silenced laughter.

Thomas peeled himself off the ground. A shattered halo hovered above his head, holes cut into his hands, nubs of horns on his head. A fallen angel.

He charged at Johan with a cry of anger.

Johan no longer was where he stood, standing by the fuse.

Thomas whipped around to face him, dashing toward him, Johan vanishing one moment before impact, Thomas’ eyes widening as he realized the grave mistake he had made, skidding in an attempt to stop himself from slamming down the steps. He crashed into the door at the bottom.

Johan gripped the rail to the projection booth, panting heavily, breathing harder when he realized he did not feel the air entering his system, in fact, he choked on it, doubling over and coughing on the air.

He choked on a foreign object around his neck, dragging him back and up the stairs.

He was pushed down to the floor of the projection booth, Jack’s angered visage entering his vision, and Johan blearily realized the man was using his hat to force the air out of him. One of his hands moved to pin Johan’s wrists above his head, the other going and gripping his hair as the younger man thrashed to escape.

“Enough, Mr. Drew.” Norman’s voice thudded against his head, his large hands landing firmly on his throat. “We’re putting you down.”

If Johan had access to his windpipe, he would have laughed.

Putting down.

Like an animal.

Johan kicked and writhed to get out of the two enraged older mens’ grasps, but he could not, their combined strength out weighing his futile and weakened physical state. When was the last time he ate something? Air. Focus on air. Blackness swirled over his vision, pulsing and inky.

More glowing numbers.

He resisted the urge to use them, fearing the result, knowing only more pain and anger will follow the action.

Do not. Give in.

Can not give in.

Need air.

No no no.

Do not….

Please, no….

A rending sound filled the air as his hands moved of their own accord, moving the object on his right and swapping it with the one outlined in red before him.

He gasped in air, the pressure gone.

“Oh my god! Norman!”

Johan coughed and looked up, his blood freezing in his veins.

* * *

 _The_ projectionist’s head was now the very thing he dedicated his life to, his body slumping onto Johan’s, blood spurting where the projector met his neck. Joey scrambled back onto Jack, knowing full well he was moving out of danger back into it, but he needed to get away from the corpse. A dripping caught their attention, blood slowly seeping down the wall of the booth. Johan and Jack slowly both turned to look up.

Norman’s head, with wide, empty eyes, a clenched jaw, and look of shock, sat where the projector had been. His blood drained from his decapitated head, ever so slowly.

* * *

 _Jack_ stared for a moment before letting out an uncharacteristic wordless scream, having lost his two closest friends, one to insanity and the other to whatever madness this was, grabbing Johan by his collar, lifting him and slamming him down over the rail to the orchestra below. Johan let out a strangled sob, his hands scrambling against Jack’s chest in an attempt to stop him. Johan found no opening for mercy, and so, he pulled them both over the banister, the momentum pushing them apart. Johan landed on the piano, Jack on the floor. Without thinking, the taller man stumbled up and away, Jack getting up with a shout of anger. A shadow appeared over his head. Everyone in the room looked up.

And watched the piano fall.

The sound it made almost was funny, the keys all hitting at once with a dull thud, and the sound of multiple bones being snapped and crushed discordant beneath the tones.

All the musicians in the room at once turned to face the giggling Johan.

Why was he giggling, he had not even used the drug that kept him numb, this should _not_ be funny, nothing in this situation was funny!

All of them charged, knowing this, this _thing_ needed to be removed as quickly and in any manner possible.

Johan felt… lost, alone, cold, comfortless, searching for something.

Thus the first wave of searchers were borne of ink and pain.

He ran out of the orchestra room, feeling nauseated and sickening.

Thomas and Sammy were arguing, the once blonde director now with ink black, dripping hair. Wally stood between his two lovers, trying to appease them, but the man turned angel was hearing none of it.

Johan watched as the wrench came crashing down on the young janitor’s arm.

He slipped away, covering his ears and trying to blot out the cries of pain and torturous emotion ripping throughout the three.

Poor Wally.

He always was a good boy.

The lost ones began appearing as he sprinted away from the music department, the other floors becoming unstable and corrupted, ink leaking from walls as he passed, walls and floors ruined.

A hand shot out from a doorway, stopping him by his mouth, dragging him into the toy department. A pale Irish face looked at him with disdain, Shawn’s entire department behind him.

“Fuck ‘im up!” Shawn roared, and Johan lost count of how many times he had been kicked, struck, smacked, slammed, punched, hit, and otherwise beaten. He was shocked none of his bones had broken. He was on the floor, his arm twisted murderously behind him, leaving him gasping and shaking.  A hissing Irish voice filled is ears. “Say it.”

“Say what?” he wheezed. His head was smacked to the floor.

“Say yer sorry, ye arse!”

“I’m sorry! I am! I don’t know what happened, I don’t know what is happening, I, I… I’m sorry….”

The man shook with sobs, every motion bringing more pain.

“I don’t believe ye.”

“Please, Shawn, I swear, I don’t know how to control this!”

“‘Nuff o’ it.” Shawn barked, making Johan cry out as he pushed his arm up higher.

Bang.

There no longer was a pressure on Johan’s back, and he scrambled away, crashing into a shelf, Bendy plushies collapsing over him. He shrieked and clammored away, so _sick_ of smiles.

An entire room of lost ones, searchers, and bloated ones looked at and regarded him solemnly.

He backed out, running, and running, until his useless, lame, pathetic, weak legs sent him sprawling down to the ground.

He curled up and cried.

He wanted to cry, at least.

He wanted to feel something, anything.

Nothing.

He stared at his hands numbly.

He knew where he could find alcohol. Shawn had alcohol. But there was no way in hell that he would go back into that room.

Grant also always had some form of it in his desk.

Joey pushed himself up, slowly stumbling down more, shaky steps going down, down, down….

He paused by the accountant’s door, knocking in case he was within.

The bottle greeted him, smashing over his head.

Wrong shoes wrong shoes no no no no no no he was not gay please do not smash the bottle over his head again, please no, you were supposed to be a good person not a beast, stop st-

The insanity transferred to Grant.

Joey slammed shut the door as cackles and howls and garbled words slipped out.

“What… what would HE SAY?! WHAT WOULD HE SAY?!”

Joey vomited again.

His own words echoed back to him for the third time that day.

He crawled to the lift.

Lacie greeted him on the lower floors, she and all the workers of Bendy Land.

This time, Johan was not just surprised none of his bones were broken, he was shocked.

The pain was unbearable, he felt his limbs beaten and torn at, he felt his clothes rip and he felt his muscles burn, he felt pain and pain and pain and pain.

Lacie grabbed him by his hair, raising an arm to punch him.

“Wait,” he croaked. “Please….”

“No,” she growled, hir fist flying to his face, and energy burst from him moments before the hit landed, and the blast rattled everything, from the games to the rides. “What the fu-”

Lost ones surrounded him once more, and there was a hollow thud as Lacie’s body landed on the animatronic she had been working on, Bertrum and hir together.

Bertrum was the only being still standing, walking delicately through the crowd of inky monster turned beings.

Bertrum stared at him, shock and terror in his eyes, replaced with sadness and sorrow.

He extended a hand to the man he saw as his nephew.

Johan stumbled onto him, shaking and sobbing onto his shoulder.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Bertrum asked him. Johan shook his head. Bertrum sighed, taking him to another room. The filled spider ride loomed over them. “Johan… go to your machine, upstairs, and undo all this mess.”

He stared at him. No one should know abo-

“Yes, the computer, dammit!” Bertrum rubbed his forehead. “I know it must be hard, but you’ve flown too close to the sun, and it’s time to reset your wings and try again.”

“You don’t know what I’m going through!” Johan yelled, tears pouring down his face. “I killed everyone! I killed Jack and Johnny and Shawn and Norman, I made Grant and Sammy go insane, I don’t even know what I did to Susie and Allison, Wally is dying and Thomas is a toon, and I don’t know what to do, I miss Henry and I’m crazy! I killed Lacie, Bertrum, your fucking spouse, I fucking killed hir, don’t you understand, I don’t know what to do!”

“Calm dow-”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ tell me to calm down! You should!”

Both of them were suddenly by the open top of the spider ride. Bertrum’s terrified eyes met his as he plummeted down with a splash. Johan screamed, his arm reaching down and into the inky and oiled abyss.

He struggled, Bertrum’s arm grasping his.

The ink splashed onto Johan’s bloodstained clothing, both men struggling against the slippery substance. Bertrum was the closest thing to family had since Aramis had been killed, he had grounded and stabilized him, and now he was literally slipping out between his fingers. Johan could not let more pain in. He was alone and afraid, and could not be more alone than he was, he needed some support, and he loved Bertrum. Bertrum was good and kind and protective of him. And he was his Uncle Bertie.

He had to save him, together they could fix this, Bertrum could help him fix his mess.

“Hang on,” he gasped, pulling on the older man, both striving to get him out of the ink and oil. “I’ll get you out of there!”

The world flicked again, Johan no longer feeling solid.

Bertrum slipped out of his hands.

The last thing Johan saw was his face, choking on the ink, drowning in the oil.

The green glow of the computer kept him up that night, as he re wrote everything.

And again. And again. No pattern seemed to work. Nothing he did was good.

Failure. No wonder Henry left.

Disgusting freak.

Johan stared at the numbers, and merely rewrote one line of code.

Save.

He scribbled a note.

He went downstairs, ignoring the glowing pained eyes of the lost ones.

He limped into the organ room.

Johnny’s body was gone, his entire code replaced within the organ’s.

Johan sat and played a note.

A moan of pain welled from the instrument.

“We come full circle, don’t we,” Johan hollowly laughed, enunciating each word with a note. Another groan. “Johnny… I hate this. I don’t hate you, how could I, with what I had done to you? But you… you! You wanted to me to make you moan in pleasure, but what about the pain I would go through?! Why not moan in pain, like I have!? Nightmares and terror are all you gave me! I closed my eyes and saw you in my horrors, I could not sleep, I could not eat, I cannot and will not forgive you! I will not apologize! I can’t! I can’t! You stripped from me the last shred of humanity I had, and now you, you, take the lack of humanity on yourself! I… I hope… that you can forgive me. I’m not apologizing. But I hope you can.”

Johan returned upstairs to his computer.

He picked up the note, and hesitated, but searched for the file.

His heart pounded.

Undo everything, Bertrum?

No, he will one up that.

Delete himself.

The file finished loading.

He swallowed saliva he no longer needed, and pressed delete, and felt _everything_ change.

He felt ones and zeros ebb off of him in waves, he felt his form break, he heard the whispers and the taunts louder than ever, he saw more shadowy shapes than before, and he felt…

_Error._

Pain shot through his system and he scrambled through the code.

Where did it go wrong!?

All he wanted to do was sleep forever.

_Error, duplicate code, unable to delete Joey Drew._

But… he did not try to… there was no….

There was no Joey Drew.

He deleted Joey Drew.

_Error, corrupted coding, cannot make changes._

What is happening?

He searched for Joey Drew.

All his coding, at first. Then branching off. Strains of Johan’s coding appeared everywhere in all sorts of small interactions, anchoring him.

Joey Drew was not Johan Ramirez anymore.

But some parts of him, the glimmers of humanity, were, and so, since Johan was deleted, the coding refused to allow him to edit the world, but since some parts of him existed in the man the only existed from his fears, he remained.

Everything reset, going black, and Johan was alone, afraid, and nonexistent.

Joey Drew woke up in an upscale apartment in the heart of Brooklyn.

##    


Johan Ramirez hated him, the deepest kind of self-loathing.


	4. Disconnect

Joey Drew awoke, stretched and yawned, pushing back and smoothing down short blonde hair.

Getting out of bed, he pulled off silk pajamas, picking up the preset suit from where it rested, changing into it after he showered briskly. He grinned and admired himself in the mirror, chocolate brown eyes flashing against smooth lily skin. Another day, another smile, another beam of joy, and that meant another sucker in his pocket. Such gullible fools, so scamable, all he needed to use to win them over was a little bit of charm, a little bit of flattery, and just a pinch of cash.

So playable, so useable, so… human.

He blinked and set off to work, people stepping aside in respect and some measure of fear as he strutted by on well kept, healthy legs.

Workers glaring at him behind his back in jealousy and begrudging admiration.

It made a grin slide onto his lips, his eyes lowering in his confidence.

This place was his.

He built it up.

His achievements.

He earned it.

His visions.

They were his.

His ink machine.

He created it.

He was the boss.

He always was.

No one else could have ever held his position.

No one.

He, as per usual, ignored the creeping sensation as he entered his office.

It was his office.

His.

No one else’s.

Ever.

It was his ink machine.

It had always been his.

He looked over his schedule for the day, sipping his always perfect coffee.

Everything about him was always prim and perfect.

Susie was on his list of meetings, as was Bertrum.

Henry Stein, too.

For some damning reason, he found himself attracted to the man.

He despised the feeling.

However, he knew Henry was playable, too. Useable, expendable.

They all were.

The ink machine told him, albeit reluctantly and through fighting and struggles.

It still gave him the information he needed after slaughtering a sacrifice, a desperate relay to save him, a terrified act to protect others when failure became apparent.

He adjusted his tie.

He earned this tie.

His tie that read “Grant Cohen” in neat letters on the label.

The accountant was so easy to eliminate.

Oh, he found out exactly what Joey would say.

It was the last thing he heard, and would be the only thing he ever would hear again, replaying over and over in his broken mind, the ink machine forced, hacking and gurgling and struggling, forced to accept the offering of the ruined man.

Just so simple, he carefully stretched his limbs on the table before the machine and calmly explained how he felt to the accountant, inquiring the ink machine again to tell him what he desired as Mr. Cohen begged and screamed for mercy in his own office, for him to just finish him off. The ink machine hissed and rumbled with Grant’s cries, almost as though it was trying to comfort the screaming accountant, pleading for his life with ink. Joey hushed him to sobs as he slowly broke his arms, in his arms, soothing him even as he snapped his limbs. The bruises covering the accountant coupled with his blotchy and tear stained face was… only one word could explain the sensation of viewing the damage, the pain… he was beautiful.

To Joey, nothing was more beautiful than forcing someone beyond their limits.

Pushing as hard as he could.

With or without their willingness, he would make sure they were pushed further than they could handle, past their sanity and capacity.

The power that he could do this was thrilling.

He could force another to their knees, to a breaking point.

Joey remembered how delicious the mathematician's tears were as he dragged his his nails deep in his flesh, carving, oh, such wonderful, flowing patterns in his skin, his lips on his cheek as he whispered what he thought of bankruptcy. Grant’s sobs and shudders as blood seeped from the wounds covering him filled Joey with delight and pleasure, and then when Grant was no longer novel to Joey, no longer gave him the same gratification, he was discarded into the ink machine, bending it to his will to accept him. Just like that.

Throwaway.

He was not the only employee to have gone missing in Joey Drew Studios.

Of course, Joey paid for search parties and consoled mourning family members, inviting them to the studio to see where their beloved dearly worked. Some joined them.

Joined them in mourning, that is.

Mourning and begging.

Some begged to go home.

They begged god.

Joey was god.

They all feared him, they all silently and hatefully worshiped and prayed to him.

The Polks refused his invitation.

It seemed that the family all had a brightness to them.

Ah, well. His family was spared, it seemed.

Aside from the projectionist, of course. He probably was killed when that projector exploded in his face, burning half the rotoscope room, boards falling and blocking him in a room that was doomed to go to blazes. Such bright embers, the fire in his eyes sealing him away in his own doom.

Oh, Norman.

Norman Polk had to be removed due to his snooping. It was a pity, almost. He caught him watching the death of Shawn. He caught him and yanked him to the ground with a practiced ease by the means of his cane. Joey offered him riches and splendor had he joined him and used his brightness for a more vibrant and luminescent purpose, bringing in a new era to the silver screen, living characters! Assisting with the sacrifices needed to be made to take these beings to light! Pulling dear Mr. Flynn back into the world of the living, but to be beloved by all! Imagine the greatness of belief!

Ah, Norman.

What a waste of such bright and brilliant potential.

Released when he refused, rebranded when he had no choice.

He could have lit the way to a brand new line of life, a whole new perspective and angle.

His head had such brilliance, his ears hearing conversations and statements to be unheard, his eyes perceiving all the things he should have ignored, his mouth spreading information that. Should. Have. Stayed. Silent.

His head was damaged beyond repair in the blast, a real pity.

His head with such clever and wise brightness.

It sat on Joey’s shelf.

Shawn, silenced just hours before the darling projectionist, could have been great. However, the Irishman’s faults out stood his benefits. Thus, his loud voice was muted for the sake of his talking. His sloppiness on the job. His lack of clean up. He was crooked. He never did his job right. Not at all. He constantly would mess up, his employees catching maroon stains on his shirt, his friends noticing the jitteriness and aggression that seemed to build up within him, his family noting his tendency to carry a blade on him at all times. He was loud and sloppy. 

Joey stitched his mouth shut.

Nice and quiet.

Clean.

A surgical operation, in and out, the white thread being stained red as it dipped in and out, slowly muffling and quieting screams, wrists shackled to his desk by the means of elastics, a hand in his hair, holding him steady.

Then he used his own knife on him, slowly, slowly, slowly, agonizingly slowly pulling it from the Irishman’s pocket. Toyed with it on his hands, carving thim as jack-o’-lanterns.

He finished telling the weeping toymaker his reasons for letting him go.

Explained how much of a lost cause it would be to right him.

When all was said and done, he cleanly and quietly ended it.

Sank it into his neck with a drawling swipe, hot blood spurting onto his hands.

He wiped it off on Norman later.

Clean and silent.

Slow and methodical.

He got Wally to spread the word that the Irishman ran off and eloped with the black projectionist, a marriage that would have been completely abhorred by both families.

Maybe that was one of the reasons Polk’s family did not come to see if he was there.

Two birds with one stone.

So simple, so playable, just a game.

The ink machine howled and shrieked with the two new sacrifices, shuddering and protesting, blazing and stitching.

It took them in any case, threatened with more to come if they were unaccepted.

Well.

It did not have a choice in the matter.

It was just a machine.

An angel must be perfect, would it not be?

Susie, Alice, it did not matter to him. She would be born anew as Alice.

Perhaps a willing subject would yield better results.

Thomas replaced Shawn as Joey’s… helper tool.

The mechanic was all too eager to help, all too set and ready to get Susie out of the way. He wanted Allison all to himself.

All his.

Just as Joey’s success was all his.

Thomas hardly put up a fight in the first moments of Joey’s onslaught, he was so stunned by the blow to the back of his head from the wrench slipped from his own belt.

Susie shrieked and cried out when his body crumpled onto hers where she lay strapped to the operating table. A quick dose of anesthetic eased her back into blissful ignorance while Joey continued to dispose of Tommy, the mechanic shaking his head with sparks in his eyes, struggling against the taller. He wrapped an arm around Tom’s throat, dragging him to a pipe, holding him beneath the stream. The man writhed, reached up, and grasped Joey’s throat as he continuously kept  him under the reluctantly flowing ink of the machine in their little scuffle for the wrench, forcing him to remove the bothersome blockade from his neck with Shawn’s knife.

Dark red joined the black ink in pouring down.

Thomas felt faint and light, and soon was no more.

He might have needed additional parts for the now lacking one, but Joey would leave that up to Thomas to obtain what he needed.

The ink machine shook with the mechanic within it’s recesses, pulsing and groaning.

He returned his attention to his angel.

For some inexplicable reason, he preferred her to the others within his company.

He very carefully released her, making sure she did not wake for an instant, if she would she would join the mechanic below the bubbling, bemoaning, black surface.

Avoiding more suspicion was key.

Eliminating two test subjects in one day would always arouse suspicion, like it already had with Flynn and Polk.

Joey would save her for later.

Joey beamed when she woke up in the corner chair of his office, dazed and confused.

He explained she had a dizzy spell and passed out.

The ink machine wept.

He knew that the devil before her was simply waiting for an opportune moment.

The right time to slaughter her.

When had Joey become enamoured by the angel? Was he? Was love even possible for someone without empathy?

Did the ink machine regret causing love, if so beautiful and wondrous a state could be called for such a black and horrific desire, within him?

It was his fault.

Could he regret it for the result?

Was the price he paid worth it?

If he knew she would just end up like the rest of them?

Was it his fault?

It had to be.

No one else could take the blame.

It was his fault….

Everything was.

He recalled it.

He knew when it had shifted from Henry to Susie.

He caused it.

He caused it.

He caused it.

The ink machine remembered how it happened.

Vividly.

Joey in Henry’s workspace.

Joey in Henry’s workspace, and it was all wrong.

“Get your hands away from him,” the machine hissed under his breath, his keyboard hovering uselessly aside his useless self. “Don’t you dare touch him.”

He hated this man so much.

He loved the other with all his being, whatever was left of it.

Joey Drew’s hand was on Henry’s shoulder.

The fake hands, formed for the sake of remembering a physical body, hands of the ink machine were clenched by his sides.

He felt this form waver and break, rebuilding itself moments later.

Joey’s hands pulled Henry from his seat.

The machine wanted to reach out to him, to protect him and spare him.

Henry looked like he wanted to back away, but a few words from Joey’s silver tongue calmed him down, and he led him to another room, saying something about a new short’s reel being complete.

The ink machine felt his (non existent) blood boil as he followed them, ink pumping through the building in a replacement to the angered flush that would have been there, hoping to protect Henry from this… thing that he created.

Himself.

But not, this was the man he could never be, more confident, more handsome, more intelligent, more cunning, more charismatic, better in every possible way.

The ink machine felt sick to his (unreal) stomach as Joey swiftly closed and locked the door to the room, and the ink machine’s false form tried to shield Henry as Joey stalked towards him, gasped in pain as Joey fazed through him, their nearly identical code screeching against the content of the other. Making the other stir, but it did not stop his intentuous approach to Henry.

His hands shoved Henry to the wall, one picking him up easily as his back hit the wood.

Johan, the ink machine, knew if he was still real, he would be crying. His (transparent, ghostly) hands hurt so badly, tingling and twitching, shaking almost, the joint of his right pinky swollen more than the rest of the aching appendages.

Joey’s hands held the panicking Henry, aloft and pressed to the wall, and Joey’s brown eyes studied him intensely, Henry’s terrified blue ones searching his for sympathy, and his mouth twitched into a smile and he whispered more sweet nothings, things Johan never dared voice, lies and twisted words, and pressed to his.

He grinned as Henry melted into the touch.

Johan glitched, feeling and seeing everything in the studio with the ink flowing through it in a millisecond, and snapped back into the form he remembered, hating every second, ready to lunge at himself.

Joey pressed further into Henry’s mouth.

Joey smiled as Henry tried to push him back, but he did not let him.

Henry tried to push him off again.

Johan snapped, ink roaring as he burst, pipes shattering.

He leapt at Joey with outstretched arms, finally, finally, physically hitting him, forcing him to stumble away from Henry with wide eyes, staring at Johan in shock and then full of rage and contempt.

“D͏O̡͏N͢͠'͘͞T̷͞ T͠O̵̧ŲC̕H͏̷ ̵̶H̕͜I҉M̧̧̨,” Johan roared. The whole room warped and distorted, the codes trying to make sense of two of the same functions in one room, ink splattering on walls and the black, dark substance dripping through wood, sins seeping to embrace their creator. Joey tried to attack Johan in return, and fazed right through him, Johan’s claw like hands tight on his neck. Bright yellow ERROR triangles filled the entirety of the ink machine’s inky and distorted vision, and he clutched Joey’s neck, trying to kill himself. “I̛ ͢͝͝H̵A͏T͜E YO͏Ư!͘͝ ̕I H̛A͝T̶͠E̛̕ ̶Y̵OU͏̧!̛̕ D͟͜I̵E ̸̡͝AL̕͘R̵E͡A̷̛͘D̵̴͡Y̵͠! ͡W̴̷H͜͡͝Y̸ C̸̨̡A̸͟N̴͏'̢̕T̵̛ ͘YO̷͜U ̸̴̧D͏͠IE̸̢͡!̶?͟ ̷WH҉̴Y̨̡ ̢C̡̧A͠͏N'͏T͏̢ ̕͘I ͘DI̛E̕!?̡”

Joey’s face, his pale, disgraceful, cocky, handsome, white, white, white face, was turning blue, and Johan grinned, finally ridding himself of that false face that haunted and taunted him.

“J-Johan?”

Both Joeys froze.

The ink machine scowled and tightened his fingers around the neck of his false self, hot angry mockeries of tears, black and angered, blurring his already obstructed vision.

“Johan, what’s happening?! Who are you!? Either of you!?”

Johan pushed against that pale neck even harder.

Henry’s eyes were wide and panicked, and he did not know what was happening. It frightened him. This was all very wrong, when had it gone wrong?

It started when Joey came into his animation area to wake him. Henry wished with all his might that he could go back to before that moment and change what he did.

He wished that this never happened.

He wished and wished.

Not all wishes come true, but Henry gasped as his head rose from his desk.

He looked at his watch.

His heart stopped, then the beat rose exponentially.

It was five minutes ago.

It was five minutes before he found himself watching… someone… something… nothing choking Joey?

What the hell happened?

When Joey came to check up on him, the look in his eyes was further than ever (he always looked like that though… did he?), and his voice was much more monotonous (but was that not his voice, his mannerisms?), and the incident… did not repeat itself.

‘What happened?’ Henry asked himself. You likely are asking the same thing.

How could one go back in time, to loop through a situation one has been through before, only for it to change and warp?

This is what, dear reader.

There is a menu.

It is available to Henry.

He does not recall it.

He does not remember using it.

Johan does not know how he used it.

Johan rose his shaky hands to his eyes’ level, and could not comprehend what happened. He almost had gotten rid of that the other him. So close to removing the murderer. Then Henry. Henry did something. The machine did not know what. However, he knew he knew that he had to further sever himself from that ‘Joey Drew’.

So he did, deleting himself over and over until the blasted, damned man could not feel for Henry like he did, Joey and Johan becoming more coded as his emotional side was removed over and over, deleted and erased again and again.

Joey had no attraction to Henry anymore, and thus became the emotional disconnect.

The resignation came as no surprise, no worry, just a bit of fury.

How dare he leave their partnership!?

When he calmed, he was more robust than before. More power. More class.

He went for Susie instead.

Still, not for the attraction.

He did not have that anymore, he never did.

For the power.

Having her under his thumb.

Johan did not know if he regretted deleting himself so many times, removing Henry from the danger but unwittingly putting Susie, sweet, kind, angelic Susie, into the flames instead.

He hoped that she would be saved by this calamity.

He saw how wrong he had been to hope.

He should have known.

Now, she was oblivious to the danger she was in.

They all were.

Everyone who remained.

Now that Shawn and Thomas were both killed, there was no one able to warn anyone of the danger, no one to call to the fear, to alert of the doom fast approaching.

Susie, Susie, darling angel, what a gal, what a demise.

Allison, the almond like, beautiful, graceful woman, followed, quite literally.

Susie had been called into Joey’s office (It was Johan’s. It was not his. It was not his. It was his.) to discuss her replacement with the junior voice actress, something she and Joey had already spoken about (between fake caresses and lies within kisses) the swap.

He tried to strangle her, his hand on her mouth as the other arm tightened around her throat. She struggled marvelously. She even nearly escaped his grip, causing four deep scratches in her cheek.

Then the other angel. Allison. She charged in and stabbed him in the back. Literally.

It burned, the knife she picked up from his own desk, coated with acetone for the sting, Shawn’s knife, tucked deep in between his ribs.

The ink machine roared beneath them in pride, the acetone in Joey’s flesh expanding sharply, the machine joining their fight.

There was a lot of pain and sounds.

Ink.

Swinging.

Fighting.

Acetone.

Anger.

Fear.

Hate.

Ink.

Flesh.

Metal.

Ink.

Pipes.

Blood.

Shrieking and banging.

He had to kill anything in his way.

The two girls were unnecessary, they could be imperfect as long as they still had control over their voices. The ink machine would be… informed of this.

So he stood, black cane tinged maroon, a bashed in skull from the jaw before him and a skewered back beside it, the lovers still reaching to each other.

He leaned back and wiped his brow, a groan rumbling up beneath him in pain. He stamped his foot.

“Oh, be quiet, you insolent heap of scrap metal!” he snapped, hauling Susie’s body over his shoulder. A weak roar protested. Joey grasped Allison’s corpse by her hair, all of it bunching together. The machine howled and hissed and sputtered as he approached it on the elevator. A lone wolf, missing its arm, looked up to greet him from beside the machine’s hall entrance. Joey tossed Allison’s cold form onto him, dark almond hair catching in his cold fur. “Hey, Tommy, can you lend a hand? Thanks.”

Thomas stared at his best friend, dead on his arm. He carefully leaned her on the wall. The wolf’s hand traced her features as Joey sliced deep into Susie, carressing and removing her still heart, putting it into a jar.

“Hey, Tom, didn’t you want to marry the girl?” Joey teased, tightening the lid. If the wolf’s face could scowl more, it did. “But you stopped pursuing her when you found out she was a lesbian. I can change that, Tommy.”

He stooped to shake the jarred heart in the former mechanic’s face.

“I can make her love you.”  


He chuckled as the wolf looked away, in shame.

“My ink machine can bend everything to my will. Of course, there are always side effects, but she can be yours, Tom!” Joey grinned as the other squeezed his eyes shut, tight. Joey used his cane to force him to meet his eyes. “Forget Sammy and Wally, Tom. I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime, to marry your first love. You two grew up together, in the same classes, imagine spending the rest of your life with her. Think of her smile. Think of her pretty hair, her beautiful eyes, her angelic voice… you can have it, don’t you want it? All for you. I can give her to you.”

Thomas’ pie cut eyes searched his browns.

He looked to the woman, cut down before her prime, who lay beside him, bruised, bloodied, battered and dead.

He nodded.

“Very good, dear,” he purred, running a hand over his head. Thomas snarled for a moment before melting into the scratches gently behind his ear. Any contact felt so nice, despite how vicious the man before him was. Do not bite the hand that feeds you, Thomas barricaded the guilt. Joey continued to pet and scratch him, rough hands smooth against ink. The hand slipped under his head, pulling it to face him. “Chin up, Tommy! She’ll be yours, Mrs. Allison Connor. Isn't that such a sweet name?”

Thomas hesitated, then nodded, feeling his emotions in turmoil. A hand was on his shoulder, neither of Joey’s, nor the hallucination of his dead dearest friend’s. Just a hand, invisible. A light squeeze, and then it was gone, as though it was never there.

As though what was never there?

There never was anything there.

Joey beamed.

“Of course, Bertrum is the one with the ordinance,” he mused to himself, laughing at the world, plans in the gears of his mind. He carved away at Susie’s flesh, molding her into the perfect vessel. “We are a fine christian establishment, aren’t we? Only proper marriages in this building, even if the clergyman is forced to complete it, eh Tom?”

The wolf did not even bother to reply, knowing it would all be for naught.

“Is this beastiality?” Joey questioned the air and chuckled. The hair on Tom’s back stood on end. “An angel marrying a wolf? Or are you just a sheep in wolf’s clothing, Tommy?”

He picked up Susie’s limp form, carrying her to the entrance of the hall of the ink machine, turning back to face him.

“Make sure Allison’s all ready for the procedure when I get back, Tom.”

His footfalls were bouncy and light.

He entered the machine.

An ugly, bright, yellow green illuminated the area.

He hummed along with the machine’s lament.

And dropped her in the ink.

She was spat out at his feet, and he kicked her back in, pulling a remote from his pocket.

The machine howled in pain as an electric shock was sent into its mass, Susie’s body jolting on the surface that was on the verge of sending her back a second time.

It moaned, pushing her out, her being sent back a moment later, another shock, with more voltage, sparking through the almost black blue of the ink. A shrieking roar, splashing and shivering. Susie gasped, falling limp again.

The ink soothingly wrapped around her, tenderly stroking her wounds and cuts as it brought her within itself, crying out pitifully.

Joey gave a vicious grin, tossing in a bottle of acetone for good measure, the inky abyss rearing in anguish.

He turned around to the operation room.

Tom was cowering in a corner, Allison’s body half strapped in, and he was staring at it in horror, repulsed and fearful.

“Aw, is the big bad wolf scared of a Tommy gun?” he taunted, grasping the weapon and slipping it behind his back, tucking it into his suit. He paused over the Angel, stooping and looking over Allison’s body. Mostly in place, but that nasty torso injury would need some repairs. He turned her to her chest,  prying off the bloodstained shirt, slitting open the skin, tweezing it away from the bloody mess, working beneath the surface with the muscle and nerves, replacing some with metal and wire. Thomas gave a sad howl as Joey unstrapped and lifted her off the table, her rigor mortis just starting to ease. Joey jerked his head toward him. “What’s your problem?”

Tom did not reply, just following them with his melancholy eyes.

Followed them into the ink machine’s room, then into the machine itself where he could no longer tread.

Allison’s body hit the ink with nary a splash, a hand seemingly rising to ease her back to the surface. Joey rolled his eyes and administered another shock. Again. A third time.

The swirling black ink glowed and jolted and waved and crashed and spasmed with the agony of the electricity, screams resounding, the pipes rushing as though it was the ink machine’s lifeline, rattling and screeching tinnily.

It accepted Allison’s body with sobs and wracking, wavering motions.

COWARD, it painted on the walls of the machine. LIAR MURDERER THIEF CRUEL HORRIBLE FALSE LIAR LIAR COWARD CHEATER COWARD LIAR FAKE LIAR LIAR LIAR

FACE ME, it demanded on the wooden door. FACE YOUR SINS

Joey pushed past it, ignoring it.

THEY ARE WRITTEN ON YOUR BACK, it warned along the hall. YOU CAN NOT RUN FROM THEM FOREVER JOEY DREW

He narrowed his eyes and pressed on, the arms of failed experiments flailing for him, trying to grasp him and return the actions of what he had done to them.

YOU WILL FACE ME, the ink coated the last door. YOU CAN NOT HIDE FROM YOURSELF

He slammed through it, anger in his eyes and hatred in his chest. He turned back to face the machine.

“Make sure their voices are intact,” Joey snarled. “Or else Jack’s gonna join them!”

The door slammed shut, enveloping the ink machine in black and toxic green.

Johan shivered, looking around, unable to interact with anything further.

His shoulders slumped as he passed his hands over the ones and zeros chaining him.

He had work to do, so as to protect the lyricist. He rewrote the fringe of whatever of his coding remained to paste a real smile on his face, and went to go console the two weeping angels and return them as they needed.

And soon, they were reborn.

As Joey demanded.

With Allison reset.

Forgetting everything of who she was.

It broke Susie.

Joey praised the ink machine, as his creation, as his design, as his servant.

He assured Thomas, the enraged mechanic, of the architect joining them.

Joining Allison and Thomas.

In the state of being dead, but still there.

“What are ya doin’ here, Mr. Drew?” Lacie’s voice, sour and bitter asked. He turned to face hir. He frowned for a split second, before his grin slowly spread over his face. “You’re the one that said that you aren’t coming into here unless you need something.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, my dear,” he hummed. He waved her off. She looked at him with suspicion, then turned away. A bang, multiple bangs, a round of gunshots, a garbled, groaning shriek, and then a thud. “Ah, so she can be killed. Interesting.”

Bertrum found himself facing Mr. Drew when he finished off his work for the day.

“I am in need of your assistance, Mr. Piedmont,” the dastardly man intoned with a drawl, a smug grin on his lips. Bertrum scowled at him, gripping his pencil so tight it snapped in his fingers, the wood scratching his palms. “I don’t really need anything from you. But we wouldn’t want a little secret to slip, hm? I’m sure that it would be rather detrimental to your dignity, wouldn’t it, Berta-”

“Okay, okay, what do you want?” He cut him off, the scowl deepening, folding his arms on his chest, a rouge tinge on his olive skin. Joey grinned, leaning against the wall. “What. Do. You. Want.”

“Mr. Connor requested you be the one to marry he and Ms. Pendle,” he droned, yawning. Bertrum stared at him, at first with confusion, then abhorrence, and finally rage. “They’ve seen past her little deviance, with my help, you know, and would like you to be the one to join them together in binding.”

“You’re sick!” Bertrum barked, backing away. A twisted, lazy, confident grin inched onto his lips. Anger seeping quickly into the Greek Englishman’s marrow, spinning his features into a grimacing snarl. “As for my dignity, Mr. Drew, I think you and I need to talk about your little… joke, if you will, last week.”

“Aw, really? I think it’s cute! Aw, it’s Bertie! Adorable!” Joey mocked, the back of his hands under his chin, batting his eyelashes. Bertrum’s snarl worsened. Joey’s grin dropped and he rolled his eyes. “Lacie would make a rather fine Alice, don’t you think?”

“You wouldn’t dare, Joey!”

“I already did, my dear, Bertie, with just a twitch of my fingers,” he provoked, eyes half lidded and holier than thou, prodding at him with just his voice. Bertrum stared at him, with a worsening sinking sensation. Within him, however, was so… much… anger. He stared at Joey, heart pounding in his chest, beating against his weak ribs, hands shaking in rage, and he acted before he thought, his hands meeting with the side of Joey’s head with a dull thunk. Joey stumbled back, staring in shock at the man, his cane suddenly whistling through the air. Bertrum’s arm snapped up to stop the blow, a crack resounding. They both looked to where the cane and bone met, both wondering in complete silence with bated breath to know which had broken. After a moment, there was a creak, followed by the wood splintering and breaking off. Joey met Bertrum’s eye, his eye twitching slightly. “You owe me a new cane.”

The end of it butted into his stomach, Bertrum gasping but then grasping the splintered staff, yanking it out of Joey’s hand, tossing it back over his shoulder. The man rose his hands in surrender, stepping back slowly as Bertrum advanced to him. Joey surveyed the area, looking for what he could use for his advantage, already processing and scheming the proper path to take. He began steering them in the direction he wanted, his slow steps leading Bertrum to the end of his line. The back of his legs hit the item he had aimed for, and he pretended to stumble against it. Bertrum’s hand slammed next to his head on the wall, blocking off an escape. Little did the poor architect know that Joey did not want nor need one. He looked at him with wide, mockingly fearful eyes, his lower lip trembling pathetically and brows arching grievously.

Bertrum faltered, frowning with mercy in his eyes.

A fatal mistake.

His head was grasped suddenly, his head shoved within a Bendy barrel full of ink and oil, leftovers from a mishap that had happened nearly a week before.

They struggled, Bertrum’s eyes wide beneath the black surface, his hands gripping Joey’s arms, scrambling against him. Joey kept him down. A minute passed of their fight, then two, then three…

Four…

Five…

Six.

Six minutes had passed, and the man was still fighting to surface.

He punched his chest.

He should be dead!

He punched his neck.

He should have drowned already!

Joey snarled, punching him in the face, splashing through the ink.

Then a feral grin spread over his lips.

The ink. Of course.

The damned machine was keeping him alive, feeding him air.

He will show it not to defy him. Not to play with him. Not to mess around with his plans.

He frantically looked about for something to teach the machine a lesson with.

An open power cord not two feet away caught his attention, sparks flying out of the end, little shooting stars.

It would do, it would do just fine.

He managed to reach it with a foot, dragging it to himself, swooping down to grasp it.

He held it above the architect’s struggling form, poised, a flaming, jolting dagger.

Make a wish, Bertrum.

I owe you.

Joey plunged it in the ink, swiftly removing his hands moments before the electricity entered it. Bertrum’s eyes seemed to bug out beneath the surface of the charged liquid, mouth opening as ink dripped into it, oil catching fire, suit aflame, his body spasming and quivering.

The acrid smell of muscle and hair burning permeated the air, filling his lungs with joy.

It was almost sweet, almost savory, the fumes of the ink blending ever so nicely, gracefully, delightfully, with that of humanity.

The cusp of life meeting the verge of death.

Beautiful.

Unbelievable.

With enough belief, anything is possible.

The ink machine sobbed and howled and screamed as it’s blood burned with the ride maker’s, almost crying out a name, had it had the mouth to do so.

Oh, the architect and his wife merely left the company.

Too many sling gunned decisions, too many flames between workers.

Yes, Sammy still pestered him for the whereabouts of Thomas and the two angels, who somehow managed to always have their lines in, yes, he asked about Norman, yes, he demanded, screaming and crying, to know about Jack.

Losing Jack was a shame.

A real bummer.

The man could have lived on had he been a little wiser. Joey knew he could have done better, if he would not have gone down the fenced off area in the sewers. It was fenced off with a keep out sign for a reason, Mr. Fain, despite the moans and sounds you may have heard emitting from it.

Seeing the failed experiments, the lost causes, the ones swollen with pain, it shook him, made him feel as though he was in a waking nightmare, the glowing eyes, the shock making him drop his flashlight.

A gloved hand pushed him forwards, making him stumble down into the filth. A shadow came above his head, and the queerest sensation of deja vu filled his thoughts as he looked up, moments before the steel crate dropped on him, landing with a  rush of chains, the squelch and crunch merged like a piano melody.

The gloved hand picked up his dear hat, lovingly dusting it off.

He wore it. It really fitted him, completing his suited outfit quite well.

Sammy’s stare, his glare, the fire in his eyes, Joey could feel it. It felt wonderful on his back. It was glorious on his neck. The sensation of his rage and gaze, it was extraordinarily unbelievable on the top of his head.

“Mr. Drew,” a thick, low, constricted voice seeped from the man staring at him. “I cannot stand by this any longer. You’re a coward, and a liar! Where is your honor! You stab a man in the back, you kill women and the old, you lock a man in a burning room, what have you done now, what have you done!? Answer for your sins, you will not chain me any longer! Answer me! What have you done to Jack!?”

“Jack? Jack Fain? The silly old lyricist that spent his days in the sewer?” Joey inquired. Sammy held his composure, his hands clenching. The canadian took a step to the business man, eyes narrow and blazing with the fire of a thousand suns of tears. “Samuel, he just needed some time away, the weight of the job was rather, well, I suppose that he found it crushing him.”

Sammy marched up to him, seething.

“And Thomas?” he demanded in a dark, deep, distraught tone, grabbing the dreamer by his lapel. Joey grinned. “What did you do to him!?”

“He’s rather sheepish, lately, and a nasty wolfish cough caught up to him. I thought that you, his boyfriend of all people, would know that, wouldn’t you?” Joey rose an eyebrow, straightening his jacket with a huff and a scowl. Sammy’s mind spun to process it. “Oooor… do you think something else is happening, Lawrence?”

“I….” Sammy’s eyes wandered to a projector. Think like Norman. What has been happening here? What is the cause? What are the results? “I think you’re killing everyone off. For some reason, but it’s not just for the adrenaline rush. But you’re doing it. You’re killing my friends and my famil-”

“They’re not dead, though your words ring with those of prophets,” a yawning, gaping, horrible chuckle passed his lips. “Would you like to see them, see them become perfect?”  


“Perfection doesn’t exist,” Sammy echoed the words of Henry. “You can only do your best. And you, Mr. Drew, striving for perfection!? It will only leave you disappointed.”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong, my dear composer!” Joey cried out, beaming with smug pride. He tossed an arm over the man’s shoulders, feeling him stiffen beside him. “Come along, and I will show you the greatness!”

He pulled him into his own office, spreading down the blueprint of the ink machine. Wally’s name was signed on it. Sammy stared at the lettering.

Joey, talking and droning on and on about the inner workings of the machine, paused and frowned when he noticed the lack of attention from the musician.

“What’s bothering you, Sam?” he asked, smiling, not tightly, but dangerous nonetheless. Sammy’s eyes narrowed and he stirred to speak, pausing. “Spit it out.”

“I know Wally’s handwriting,” he hoarsely muttered. He pointed at the lettering in all capitals. “And that… those letters? They’re clearly not his. That… whatever this is, I know that is definitely not his handwriting.”

Joey frowned. He never noticed that. He never spoke with the janitor of how he made this. The good man was rather absent minded, and it only now seemed to sink into the business man. But he shrugged, ignoring it. The machine was the best thing to pass into his hands, and he did not care.

It was his.

“Come see it.”

…

“It feels… familiar in here.”

…

“Have I been here before?”

…

“Joey?”

…

Crashing. Struggling. Failing. Failing. Failing. Faces of loved ones swirling. Regret. Regret. Regret, oh how he regretted not telling Wally. Forsaking him. Abandoning him.

…

The hat and gloves sat beside Norman’s head and Shawn’s knife, alongside Thomas’ arm and Susie’s heart, with Lacie’s belt and Bertrum’s ring, and of course, right with Grant’s tie and Allison’s hair clip.

Joey looked at his earnings with hungry pride, the desire for more itching him as it always did. Itching and burning, deliciously fulfilled.

Joey passed his eyes along the items.

What would join them next?

Wally’s cap? His suspenders? His eyes? What would be a fitting momento of the forgetful janitor? What could Joey use to remember the scatterbrained man?

What would be fitting?

Ah, no matter. He would decide when he would get there.

He was wrong about it anyways.

It was not Wally next, as he suspected it would be.

Johnny, the sourfaced, angry, now pissed, now violent, now aggressive organist, and the new now, the after the past now, was different - his fingers looked quite nice in a jar, the rest of him chopped with the axe into tiny bite size pieces, practically spoon fed to the machine, like throwing in little bits at a time, like lazily feeding a fish.

A fish that violently trembled and tremored with each morsel.

It was forced to accept it, and the piping above the organ bursting and ink welling into the cracks and shafts of the instrument, flooding it. Vomiting out the organist from it’s inky prison like a blight.

Experimentally, Joey played a few notes. Pained, fearing groans emitted, wafting through the air, a lone afraid coyote.

Delightful.

Wally, Wally Wally! What a great guy, a real gentleman, an absolute sweetheart.

He baked him a cake.

A nice, big cake.

Acetone and poison slipped in the sugar.

The man made a mess, oh dear!

Joey pulled him into his office, his dark face seeming pale.

The man was seated on his lap, held in firm arms as he shuddered and clutched his abdomen and chest.

“There there, Wally, it’s alright,” he cooed in his ear, smelling his sweat as the poison seeped through his veins. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m staying right here, see?”

Wally gasped and shook and nodded, burying his face in the crook of Joey’s neck.

He cried about his brother, who was drafted. He cried about his boyfriends, who he missed so much. He cried about his vanished friends, and his fading family.

And he cried about how he did not want to die.

Joey promised he will get better.

He would be perfect.

The machine accepted him without a fight, resignation as it caressed the janitor’s body, cradling it, a star in the darkest night sky.

Johan rocked himself. He was alone again.

So alone.

Time passed.

He was not inactive, never let it be thought he stood by.

He was rewriting the coding. He had to make a loop, he had to find a place where it could loop back, over and over.

He needed one so as to fix what he had done, he needed more time! Just more time, he could fix this!

He found a spot.

Somewhere he could go over and over his coding.

He wrote the letter with a pounding heart.

He sent it.

And continued making tweaks here and there, writing a script.

He worked on the project for thirty years.

It did not feel like thirty years.

It had been.

He looked at the burning light in front of him.

He waited for the man to walk through the door.

And he pressed delete.

Everything went black.

His heart was racing.

He begged and pleaded for this to work, hoped and cried as he brought the computer close and pushed in the usb with the file.

He waited.

A ding.

He leapt to press the OPEN button.

A low, mechanical rumble filled the air, and he felt like weeping in joy.

JOEY DREW STUDIOS, in a moving version of the logo, burst into view.

BENDY AND THE INK MACHINE was written on the first page. Version 1.0.

He trembled as he selected begin, and he shook when he started it all.

Three words never gave him more comfort.

“Joey, I’m here.”


	5. Impossibility and Pride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Until this is posted on tumblr, johan will be around on there.

Henry learned rather quickly the place he found himself in was a literal hell.

 

Then again, he knew it from the time he worked there, but the disheveled state of the building made the tyranny of the aura all the more prevalent.

 

There were locked doors, broken and flickering lights, creaking floorboards, the massive ink machine he remembered Joey tinkering with and creating.

 

Joey Drew. The name left a sour taste in his mouth.

 

Henry easily powered up the machine

 

He almost jumped out of his skin when a plank fell from the ceiling, cursing it out and sputtering, hand gripping his heart.

 

The damn cutout that just… appeared, out of nowhere, almost like it was set up, it’s black, dark, venomous pie cut eyes following him, trained on him, a vice on his body.

 

He looked beyond it.

 

He stiffened, walking up to the… thing mechanically, no choice but to investigate, to try and piece together the shattered bits of clues.

 

The… the sight of Boris’ mangled and vivisected body. It was sick, something very wrong.

 

Preternatural, twisted a fairytale gone south faster than the stock market crash of ‘29.

 

Henry did not have very many good memories of working here, but his old desk brought in a wave of nostalgia. But from what? Maybe it was just the joy of animation. Of bringing things to life with his hands.

 

To grow and create.

 

Back in the day, Joey made him stay late with him to work on animations.

 

Pushed him, encouraged his workaholism.

 

Work hard, work happy.

 

Then it got worse.

 

Work hard, work harder.

 

Happiness ebbed away, and stress alongside exhaustion strained into the job.

 

More and more effort, pushing himself harder, forcing himself to his limits.

 

Work your hardest.

 

Looking at the doodle on his desk, the doodle he had frantically covered, marked with a note for Wally to hide it, he realized how much time he wasted there. Cowering in some strange version of friendship and fear.

 

Mostly discomfort.

 

The friend that overstayed his invitation.

 

The invitation being into Henry’s life.

 

He tried to force him from his family, pushing the idea of a ‘studio family’, neglecting his own family, his wife and his daughter.

 

Sure, Diane and he did not last - but he had Linda.

 

His daughter, who he ignored and pushed away while he worked for Joey. He should have spent more time with her instead of leaving her with Diane or with one of her grandmothers, he should have bonded with her more.

 

He realized that when he left.

 

His daughter was so happy, such euphoria coursing through her when he told her that he quit, and she had taken him by the hand to spin around their living room with him, chanting, “daddy, daddy, you’re finally home!”

 

Now, for some inexplicable, insane, god damned reason, he was back. He was back in the place he lied to himself about. The studio was never anything good, it was a prison, a prison sealed with stockholm syndrome, a jail cell with the most cunning locks.

 

And here, back in this Hell… something was so very wrong.

 

Starting up the machine was easy.

 

The ritual was strangely familiar, as though he had performed it before, but maybe in a vague dreamlike state.

 

Was it deja vu?

 

No, he had definitely done this before….

 

______

 

Red eyes.

 

Angry, hurt, red eyes.

 

Henry stared at Joey. Something was off about him.

 

_____

 

The change in the man was obvious now. There was no doubt about it, he was changed. Skin dark like black tea, eyes red like rubies, magenta glasses, a tall stature on his shoulders yet bound to the wheelchair, black jacket, white pants, all familiar and yet so strange.

 

“Joey?” he murmured. The man ignored him pointedly, eyes narrowing. Red eyes, red, eyes, alexandrite red eyes. Whose were those? Whose lanky body? “... Johan?”

 

The man before him froze.

 

Then he smiled nervously, a smile Henry knew very well, but why?

 

“Let’s talk.”

 

____

 

“You promised one more run,” Henry growled, jabbing a finger into Joey’s chest. He rose a hand in a worried protest, a hand that Henry plucked out of the air. Their eyes met, Joey’s puce fearful and confused, he did not recall making such a promise. Henry’s second hand grasped his wrist, and he twisted. Joey howled, back snapping straight with the pain he could not escape from. Seconds, agonizing seconds, passed, and with a sud- SNAP. Joey felt like he could not breathe.

 

Henry’s hands were on his other wrist, bringing it down onto the counter with a crack. Johan wordlessly howled, doubling over on his broken wrists.

 

“That should teach you not to lie,” Henry growled. Joey, on his knees, gasped in air as tears spilled over his cheeks painfully. “I expect you to finish on the next run, or if I were you, I would fear for my hands.”

 

Joey nodded soundlessly and slowly, shaking and shivering.

 

Henry walked to the door, slipping through it without a word. Johan, stuck in his kneeling position, lowered his forehead to the floor, allowing his tears to drip through his lashes.

 

Shakily, a smile spread on his lips. Soon it will all be over. Soon it will all end. He would be forgiven! What a benevolent master Henry was! How kind!

 

Forgiveness!

 

What a remarkable, impossible, wonderful thought!

 

___

 

Dear reader, the next moments are no fault of mine. They are the result of another, whom despite pleading, constantly put aside their wellbeing. And so, it is with a bitterness I divulge the plaintiff cry of self inflicted impairment. This is their fault in two major ways.

 

I am merely relaying it.

 

He regretted deleting the Numerica.

 

He had to have something.

 

Everything hurt, his wrists ached, more than with the pain of the chains that normally enveloped them, tight and cruel.

 

He wanted something to relax his mind.

 

He wanted it.

 

He NEEDED it.

 

He groaned.

 

His closed eyes snapped open, a grin lopsidedly spreading on his lips.

 

He knew where he could get something of the sort.

 

He rummaged in another’s dimension, pulling his hand back.

 

In it, yellow pills.

 

Half of one was one dose, right?

 

Shrugging, he tipped the whole thing into his mouth.

 

He smiled and let the drug take over.

 

Colors, brighter than he had ever seen in his life, due to his impairment, splashed over his vision. Pain vanished. Ink dripped from his lips.

 

The colors heightened.

 

Brighter.

 

Whiter.

 

Maybe death would be good.

 

He did not regret stealing the pills, he never would see him again, anyways.

 

Johan’s final gift to him, his death with the other’s instrument.

 

He groaned as the pain from overdose kicked in.

 

His stomach throbbed and his head ached.

 

Pain hit every nerve.

 

He wanted to curse him. To curse them.

 

But he could not, he was powerless, and he felt tears prick his eyes, only the bright green of the numbers on his vision.

 

They dripped down the sides of his face, slipping into his hair, shame burning into him again. He cried out in agony, needless needles jabbing into every muscle, tearing him open from the inside out like claws, ripping into every single bone and tendon, a gluttonous devour of any clean feeling he held.

 

He wanted to die as the pain coursed through him, but he knew he would not be able to.

 

He choked on his tears, unable to move as the pills wrecked his body, forcing him to scream out, his voice raw and aching, trapped more than before.

 

He gasped and sobbed, hating himself.

 

Hating his weakness.

 

Hating everything about himself.

 

Pathetic.

 

He tried to curl up to let the pain ebb away, but the pills kept him still.

 

He hated himself.

 

He closed his eyes, and sobbed.

 

Why did they do this to him?!

 

Why were they giving him more pain than he was in already!?

 

Did they hate him?

 

They must, right?

 

There was no other explanation.

 

Confusion sank into him. He thought they loved him. Did… did they never love him?

 

He felt his shoulders slump.

 

No one could love him.

 

Obviously.

He was just a glitch bitch, a worthless shit, empty code, useless machinery. Pathetic, broken, a toy. Nothing. A zero.

 

They were right to hate him.

 

He was nothing good, nothing kind, a liar, a drug addict, a murderer, and now, a thief.

 

Pathetic.

 

Such a blight.

 

A disgrace.

 

He moaned, hand clenching on the pill bottle.

 

He wanted the pain to end. He wanted it to all go away.

 

He wanted everything to go away.

 

He wanted to die.

 

And this was a reminder he could not.

 

He hated himself.

 

____

 

Henry’s lips kept taking his attention. He had to focus, he needed to barter this right.

 

“I can do it in a thousand runs,” Johan assertively insisted. Henry shook his head. Joey scowled. “How about you try to repair our world using only ones and zeroes, huh?”

 

“I’m not the one who committed genocide,” Henry growled, his hand fisting on the table. Johan swallowed roughly. “Fifty at most.”

 

“Fifty!” Johan exclaimed, disgusted. “Fifty runs will never be enough for me to code even half of south america!”

 

“Then a hundred will suit you just fine!”

 

“Seven hundred fifty!” Johan lowered.

 

“Seventy five!” Henry challenged, eyes narrow.

 

“Eight hundred!” Joey insisted.

 

“A hundred,” Henry returned, not planning on conceding.

 

“Seven hundred is my lowest,” Joey grumbled, eyes looking over Henry, slitted and frustrated. “You can’t rush art.”

 

“This isn't god damned art!” Henry roared, leaping to his feet. “This is my goddamn life!”

 

“It’s my goddamn life, too!” Joey seethed. “Y-You don’t understand what you’ll be taking from me! People I love, people I car-”

 

“What fucking people!?” Henry demanded in an explosion, eyes wild, hands slamming onto the counter, making Johan jump back in fright and shock. “Other yous!? Is that it!? Fuck that, when this is over I’m going to make sure you _never_ see them again! They’re distractions! All of you, every fuckin’ version is a liar! That’s probably why you get along so nice and dandy, oh, he’s a murderer, that’s fine, we all killed someone last week! Is that it!? And how many of you share the same fucking deviance?! How many of you are sods, huh?!”

 

“Henry!” Joey sputtered, flushing and grabbing at his heart pin. “Y-you’re bisexual, how can you say such a thing? How can you be so, so crude?”

 

Henry scowled, and then stopped, sighing and slowly lowering himself back onto his chair. Joey watched him with hurt in his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Henry said, sincere. “I didn’t mean to say that, I got mad and I wanted to bother you. What I said was wrong.”

 

“It’s okay,” Johan murmured, sitting down in his wheelchair, his hands wrapping around his cup of tea. Henry’s cold hands pressed over his, and their eyes met. Joey’s lips quirked up in a small smile, Henry’s following in his smoother fashion. “Six hundred?”

 

“Two hundred.”

 

“Five hundred is the lowest I can do,” Johan shook his head.

 

Henry sighed, and stuck out his hand.

 

“Five hundred it is, then,” he said, sealing the deal with a shake.

 

Johan made his way to the door, opening it, paining a blue tack on the wall.

 

“This is run one.”

 

_____

  


Johan messed up. Repeatedly.

 

The artist was trying so hard, and Henry continuously got madder and angrier with him.

 

He wanted to please him so badly.

 

To be good!

 

He could be good!

 

He could!

 

Please, believe him, he could b-be good….

 

He offered Henry runs every time he failed.

 

With bright hopeful eyes.

 

Tears in them.

 

He was lowered, down, down, down, to 414.

 

____

 

He could not move properly. Something familiar, horrifically, hideously familiar, pressurized his chest. He was… on his knees? Something restraining him from falling. His blue black hair was splayed everywhere, messily spiking over his eyes. He swayed his head side to side, trying to get a bearing of his surroundings. A wry, tight grin crossed his lips, like someone tearing through paper unevenly with a knife.

 

Right.

 

He gave a hollow laugh, whistling to himself and swaying.

 

He could wait.

 

He was patient.

 

He would wait for the good doctor.

 

Eventually, the door clicked unlocked and swung open.

 

Footsteps waxed near him, and he continued to whistle and sway, head rolling on his shoulders and chest like a twisted pendulum.

 

The footsteps paused, and he tensed, a grin mangling his already eerie features.

 

Silence.

 

“Boo!” he sharply snapped his head up, jolting at the doctor before him, wild eyed and beaming maniacally. He dropped his notepad on the floor, the restrained man sticking out a leg to cover it and pull it back. The doctor, with his hand on his chest, glared at him as he cackled and hooted with laughter. “Aw! C’mon doc! You’re as white as a ghost!”

 

“Enough, Ramirez,” the doctor ground out, trying to get back his notebook. Joey grinned at him, kicking up the pad, bouncing it off his shoulder and catching it in his mouth. Quickly standing to full height, he towered over him, grinning smugly. “Joey Drew.”

 

“Fine, have it your way, Dr. Stein,” Joey grumbled tossing the book. His terrifyingly happy demeanor shifted to one of melancholy, and he sat back on the floor, straight jacket making him feel horribly itchy. “What’re you here for? To gloat?”

 

“No.” Henry flatly replied. “The lobotomy procedure was cancelled.”

 

“Really?” Johan’s head slowly rose, eyes wide with wonder. “And… and that means no split brain treatment either?”

 

“Neither.”

 

“Oh, thank you,” he breathed, sagging against the wall. “Oh, Doctor, thank you.”

 

“Are you going to take your medication without fighting this time?” Henry questioned blandly, measuring out a thick, black liquid, into a thin, cylindrical tube. Joey stared at it in disgust, hesitating before shaking his head in the negative. Henry grimace. “Take the goddamn medicine, Joey.”

 

“I don’t want that,” he grit out painfully, eyeing it with disgust and some fear. Henry approached him swiftly, holding him down on his shoulder. He glanced at him from the corner of his eye, flushing from embarrassment. “I’ll do it for a kiss.”

 

“Just take the it,” Henry growled, pushing the vial against his lips. Johan pursed them. “Come on already! Take it!”

 

He shook his head.

 

Henry’s nails dug into his shoulder, the glass painful through his lips. Joey reluctantly, feeling contempt toward himself, parted his lips.

 

“There we go,” Henry hummed, running a hand up and down his shoulder. Joey shuddered, his eyes squeezed shut. The taste of the ink… ink? What ink? INK.

 

With a skreech, he jolted back to reality, screaming, aching, trembling, thrashing.

 

He made sure he had command of his limbs, sharply lifting his hands and waving them in his face. He curled up, and cried.

 

Was that real?

 

Was his entire world a drug induced nightmare? Were the people he knew here just… just other people in an asylum? Was it all fake? It was, wasn’t it? There was no explanation. He was alone.

 

No.

 

He refused to believe that he was nothing more than a dream, he was real.

 

Think of the others.

 

More proof he was fake.

 

No.

 

He was real.

 

Nothing could stop him.

 

He was nothing, and nothing would stop him.

 

No.

 

He had to believe.

 

Belief never got him anywhere.

 

No.

 

He had to hope.

 

He had to hope, as belief abandoned him.

 

Hope was all he had, and he would use it.

 

He set his fingers to the keys.

 

Hours passed in his work. He slipped away to visit the others, having completed the necessary amount for the run, proud of himself.

 

In a few runs, he would have to meet with Henry.

 

He was not scared, he finally reconciled with his closest, and he was ready to face one of them again, he was ready.

 

He saved, and waited for Henry to come.

 

He fidgeted, an unfamiliar dull aching permeating his body.

 

What was wrong with him?

 

He coughed, feeling the throb from the simple action he was all too used to.

 

What was happening?

 

He tried to focus on the clock. It made him smile. Time worked again. It was a big accomplishment on his end, even if he saw it as a small feat. It was difficult, but he had done it.

 

What was wrong, why did he feel so… off?

 

.

..

…

 

Pain spiked into all his being, every limb screaming, each cell shrieking.

 

He screamed, darkness flaring through his sight, and he felt the wheelchair dissipate from under him.

 

All he could feel was pain.

 

Agony seeped into every pore, his lungs burning, his eyes welling, his chest heaving as torment ripped though his body.

 

He could not move, all he could do was feel nightmares claw at his eyes, false memories of needles jabbing into him, tight restriction holding him in place as fire swept through him, razing every nerve.

 

“Johan! Are you alright!?” Henry’s voice cut through like a knife. Johan felt a strong arm on his back pulling him to sit. He felt himself get carried to the couch when it became clear he would collapse again. “Oh, Joey, you weigh less than ever before… Joey, pal, wake up, I’m going to get you something to drink, stay put.”

 

Joey groaned as he forced his bleary eyes open. To his relief, most of the apartment was still in place, and it seemed no progress was lost. Just a bit longer, and he would finish.

 

He sighed contentedly, leaning back against the couch, gripping it with one hand. Solid. The sensation made him want to laugh and cry out of elation and anticipation.

 

“Alright, Joey, I’m ba- holy shit!” Joey’s eyes rose to view the wide eyed stare of the other animator. His gaze was drawn to the top of his own head, following Henry’s look. He looked down at the hand on his lap shamefacedly as he caught the merest glimpse of silver. Silver! The other hand hastily shoved it off his forehead and back, not wanting to see any of it. He felt so young, but he felt so tired and ancient, and his body showed it. Henry rushed over to him, gentle, broad, calloused hands slipping through the locks in wonder and with great curiosity. “Your hair… it’s not black anymore. Or even blue.”

 

“Sorry it’s ugly,” Johan muttered, reaching to his knees and pulling them to his chest, Henry making an odd noise in his throat. “The cause of it is likely the fact that as our world becomes more filled, and as time measuring objects like clocks and calendars appear, I started to show the age I would be. I don’t suppose I aged very well, did I?”

 

“Joey, listen to me,” Henry’s voice was strange. Joey slowly looked up at him. “This isn't the first time I saw you with white. This is the first time it stuck. And it’s okay.”

 

“No it’s! It’s!” Joey made a frustrated sound, gritting his teeth. “I don’t! Want! To die! I don’t want to grow up! I’m still twenty two, no matter what my body looks like! I! I! I!”

 

“Calm down!” Henry soothed him, taking his hands off his face, where he was not even aware he was clawing at in his panic. "No, hey, don't worry about it! I think it... it looks nice! It suits you. And the tips… the tips are still black and blue.”

 

“Really?” Joey asked quietly, not wanting to grow a false hope. Henry nodded. “I’m certain I look like a buffoon.”

 

“Not at all,” Henry chuckled. “It’s kind of like a paint brush.”

 

He ran his hand through it again, Joey leaning into the gentle caress.

 

Henry’s hand continued to make its way through his hair repeatedly, until Johan felt his eyes slowly drifting shut. Henry’s hand slipped to his jaw, turning his head gently, until they were face to face. They looked at each other in their daze for a long moment, then eyes widened, and they both snapped away, muttering excuses to no one, Henry’s flush more apparent than Joey’s due to their skin tones.

 

“Here.” Henry muttered, thursting the cup of water he got at the other old gentleman, the liquid circling the glass as centripetal force tugged on it, a small amount leaping over the side, the drops landing on Johan’s hand. Henry’s breath seemed to freeze, and he shoved the cup into Joey’s hands. “Now, drink it, and don’t stop once you start. Doctor’s orders.”

 

“You... alright there, Hen?” Joey asked, lowering the empty glass, wiping his lips with a small napkin that moth brought him. “Thank you, Gracehopper. Henry, you look… hungry? Is there something I can get you to eat?”

 

“No, no, I’m fine,” Henry shook himself out of it. “Uh, should we see how else you aged?”

 

“Sure,” Joey sighed in defeat. “It’s not like I’ve ever had go-”

 

A rumbling tore them from their conversation. Joey groaned.

 

“It’s destabilizing again. You should go.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Joey glitched himself into his wheelchair as Henry made his way to the door. Joey stirred before his computer before looking over at the man.

 

“I’m almost done,” he called out behind him. Henry paused, and left.

 

______

 

And then he was done.

 

He wept.

 

He cried his heart out.

 

He sobbed and shook.

 

Since, when all is finished, the shock hits.

 

Henry stood before him as he cried.

 

He hugged him, awkward from the wheelchair.

 

“Ten more runs,” Henry reminded, and Johan nodded and wiped his tears. Time to make them last. Hold each precious moment, for he will never have it again.

 

____

 

Johan waited quietly for Henry to appear.

 

When he did, they strolled onto the streets of Manhattan, weaving through the people.

 

People, something that had been missing for thirty long, long years.

 

Still, thirty years of life stolen.

 

Henry and Joey knew it was time to set things right.

 

They came back to the studio, the ink machine powered on, the computer on, and the world turning to black and green.

 

Joey typed in the formula with tears in his eyes.

 

Tears of hope.

 

The reset button appeared, and he and Henry silently approached it.

 

“YOU CAN’T ESCAPE ME, JOHAN!” a voice that never was roared, calling the name like a mockery. “LISTEN TO ME, I AM GREATER THAN YOU WILL EVER DREAM TO BE!”

 

Pipes swirled up onto his ankles and ink welled against his limbs, restricting and grasping him, pulling him back to hell. He cried out, and Henry turned back to ask what the matter was, and his eyes widened as he saw Johan, being pulled back even as he dissipated, an arm wrapped tight around his throat.

 

Henry let out a battle roar, running back, punching the attacker in the face.

 

The man, for man it was, swore and stumbled back as Johan wheezed and typed a code as fast as he could to get him and Henry back to the button, and paused everything. Henry looked back at the man behind them frozen in time.

 

He stared at him.

 

“Joey?” he said, pointing at the default with confusion, eyebrows quirking at Johan.

 

“No.” Johan grit out. Henry scowled, pieces falling into place. He forced Johan to face him, the dark man refusing to meet his eyes. “What is your problem?”

 

“You have to deal with him,” Henry insisted. Joey bit his lip and looked to his shoes. “That man, that thing, that, that monster, he’s your problem to deal with. If you don’t get rid of him, he will always be a part of you. You will never be comfortable with who you are as long as you don’t face him. So go! Fight back!”

 

“Forget it,” Johan muttered, wheeling himself to the reset button. Henry let out a huff of frustration, going over to join him. “Are you ready?”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry curtly answered. “And you?”

 

“Yes,” he lied. He put his hand to the grey button, watching it fade into a deep indigo. He looked to Henry with a tilt of his head. “Your hand, if you please.”

 

Henry, saying nothing, placed his hand on the button as well, gold flowing from where his fingers met the code. It entwined with the blue, merging and dancing as one, sapping and strengthening each other, growing and changing and making something completely unheard of. There was a hum, and the button glowed green.

 

Active.

 

“Are you ready?” Henry inquired, his fingers twitching on the button, starting it.

 

“I am,” he fabricated. Inhaling sharply, he said, “Let’s do this.”

 

“Just so you know,” Henry’s hand tightened into a fist. “I don’t want to see you again. After whatever this is. I never want to see you ever again.”

 

Johan felt his heart break.

 

Again.

 

Something was wrong.

 

“Okay,” he whispered, ignoring the pang racing through his body.

 

“Well?” Henry prompted right hand pushing Joey’s left onto the button. “Click it now. On the count of three.”

 

The world was going to end, and Johan found it shoved in his face.

 

“Three!”

 

“Henry! Please, please, wait wait wait!”

 

“I thought you wanted us to end it all?”

 

“I don’t know!” he wailed.

 

“Two!”

 

“Please no! God, please wait, please, no, wait!”

 

“One!”

 

“Henry!”

 

He pushed their hands onto the button, slamming it and making the bright green glow gleam and glitter and glint and spread, time slowing, Johan able to see the numbers slowly making their way to the activated event.

 

He stared at the green numbers, eyes widening, and then

 

NOT THE FIRST TIME.

 

He gasped.

 

NOT THE SECOND TIME.

 

N-no… no, no, that does not make any sense, unless he had…

 

THIRD TIME.

 

He deleted his own memories.

 

Tears dripped down his face, memories flooding him, leaving him trembling, shaking, a tsunami of horror and disgust.

 

“Are you okay?” Henry’s voice asked him.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked twice before then.

 

Johan could not breathe.

 

Memory wipe?

 

Again?

 

Should he do another?

 

A fourth?

 

He looked back at the default Joey.

 

Henry was right, he would never leave him be if he did not fight back against it.

 

They stared at each other.

 

With a sharp turn, Johan wiped his memor

 

Johan Ramirez woke up in an abandoned apartment in Brooklyn.

 

He went to work and quit it.

 

He built a studio called “Joey Drew Studios”.

 

He built a computer.

 

He built an ink machine.

 

He deleted himself.

 

He destroyed his world.

 

He rebuilt everything, so slowly.

 

He stared at the default Joey.

 

Memories flooded back.

 

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

 

How many times will he repeat this?

 

How many times will he meet the same people?

 

If he moves on… what will change?

 

He would have only met others twice, if met at all.

 

Could he move on?

 

He hesitated.

 

“Joey?” Henry asked for the first time.

 

A chill ran down his back.

 

Everything will change.

 

It is changing now.

 

He turned his wheelchair slowly to face the fraudulent version of himself, sitting high and proud as he rolled to him.

 

To it.

 

To nothing.

 

He was the mother fucking Johan “Joey” Drew Ramirez, and nothing could take it away.

 

“You. Are. Not. Real.” he forced from his mouth.

 

The copy grinned.

 

“You never were.” he breathed, closing his eyes. “I am me. I am Joey Drew. You are not. You are coding that broke off of the original, because I was afraid of who I was not.”

 

He rose his head and stuck his chin forward, hands… perfectly steady.

 

“I’m not good looking. I’m not confident. I’m not smart.”

 

He inhaled, long and slow.

 

“And that’s okay. I don’t need to be.”

 

“I have been told that I am kind. That I am funny. That I am okay. You are not.”

 

He opened his eyes. The man before him wavered and snapped.

 

“I love who I am. And you are not me. And I deserve everything I’ve made for myself.”

 

He turned back around, and wheeled back to Henry.

 

No more memory wipes. No more feeling wrong.

 

Meant to be like this.

 

He was proud of who he was.

 

He shined his pin on his palm, smiled, and reset with Henry along him.

 

“Hey, so,” he called to him in the vortex, everything being pulled to them. “Henry, can… do you think we can meet up after all this? I’ve got something to tell you.”

 

Henry looked at him.  
  
“I know you said that you don’t want to see me again, but… it’s important.”

 

“Can’t you tell me now?” Henry asked, testily. “While this is all ending?”

 

“This has happened before,” Joey told him. “All of this.”

 

“Really now?” Henry asked, curiosity sparked. “Among everything else that’s happened from what you’ve done, this one might just take the cake.”

 

“Will you meet me?” Johan questioned, tilting his head. “Tuesday, at the old park?”

 

“I’ll meet you in nineteen thirty, eh?” he smiled at Joey. “Change some things up?”

 

“N-no,” Joey shifted. “As soon as possible. I’ll probably… go home.”

 

Henry gazed at him.

 

“Tuesday at the old park it is,” he quietly affirmed.

 

Joey smiled at him.

 

He smiled back.

 

“I love you, you know,” he said.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry muttered. “Love you too.”

 

Joey blinked, then beamed as reality warped around them.

 

Things were going to be great.

 

The end.

  
  
  
  
  
  


.

  


.

 

.

  


No.

 

He still has so many problems.

 

So much delicious fear, insanity, pain.

 

He’s not done yet.

 

Not by a long shot.

 

He has a job to do, he has a world to fix, and when all is said and done, it will end.

 

And it is not the end.

 

It cannot be…

 

Three pairs of feet surrounded the code that once was the body of Joey Drew.

 

It will not be...

 

“Well?” A wavering, glitching voice prompted. “Do we know who’s next?”

 

Not for a long long time…

 

“I believe he is,” a pulsing, tired one replied, turning to the last of them. “What do you think?”

 

Not until the drawing is done and framed and hung…

 

The ink demon only grinned, all teeth and no happiness.

 

… The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> betchya werent expecting that  
> unless youre silv  
> you figured that out quick ;)


End file.
